


Echoes

by SilusLocke, x57



Series: Echoes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Dark, Dark!Mycroft, Dubious Consent, Gore, Knifeplay, M/M, Sadism, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, longfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 217,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilusLocke/pseuds/SilusLocke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/x57/pseuds/x57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accident at a top-secret facility regresses Mycroft both mentally and physically back to where he was as a young boy. Not many people knew it, but Mycroft had been very troubled as a child. Now that he's been given a clean slate, he finds that the life he previously chose to live was not the one he’d originally wanted... and then he meets Jim Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Both A Progression Through Fear and Echoes draw from the same characterizations and Holmes family history, however each are individual stories that do not take place in the same universe.
> 
> Also, this fic is finished! We will be posting chapters as we edit them. It is quite long.

Absolutely nothing was extraordinary about the day _it_ happened. 

Sherlock was puttering around the kitchen, losing himself in experiments to stave off his ennui while John browsed the internet and caught up on his email. 

When Sherlock's phone rang, he stripped off one glove long enough to glance at the caller ID before rolling his eyes and leaving the mobile on the counter. After a few moments of silence, it began to ring again. Sherlock studiously ignored it, dedicating all his attention to the desiccated tissues he was examining under the microscope.

The third time, it was John's phone that rang.

The tawny haired man paused mid keystroke, sighed, and looked up at his flatmate, who did not deign to acknowledge the displeasure in John’s gaze. John rolled his eyes and fished his phone out of his pocket. It was Mycroft’s number. 

"Hello?" he answered, pointedly cheerful only for the sake of irritating Sherlock. 

"Hello?" The voice at the other end of the line repeated his greeting with an audible level of tension. It most certainly _wasn't_ Mycroft. "Am I speaking to... Doctor John Hamish Watson? Are you still the secondary contact for Sherlock Holmes?"

John's brows furrowed and he gave another questioning glance to Sherlock, who was still ignoring him. "Uhm, yes, this is he?" John assumed the primary contact could only have been Mycroft himself. He let his unspoken questions hang in his tone. 

"Do you happen to know Sherlock Holmes' whereabouts? I'm afraid there's been an incident. I need to get in contact with him immediately." Whatever had happened, it must have been dire; the speaker's voice was ragged on the edges. It was the sound of someone who'd been suddenly backed into a corner and couldn't see a way out. 

"He's here with me." John's face fell. "Here, let me put you on speaker," he said, and situated the phone to lie on the table for Sherlock to hear as well. A sense of unease crept into his nerves. "What's happened?" 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and turned towards John. He'd only been able to hear half of the conversation thus far, but John's sudden change in tone had set off a sense of alarm that only deepened when he saw John's expression. "This is Sherlock Holmes speaking."

"Mr. Holmes? I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but there's been an accident." Sherlock went very still, porcelain skin going a touch paler. "Your brother is alive, but there are complications, more than I can explain over the phone. I'm going to need to bring you in to give you a debriefing of what's happened. You're the only listed kin, so if you're capable, we'd prefer to release your brother into your care once the doctors clear him to leave."

John's lips parted. His eyes were on Sherlock now, taking in the changes in the detective just as much as the caller's words. "Release him to our care…?" John muttered. An array of terrible accidents filtered through his imagination, everything from finding Mycroft blinded to him being confined to a wheelchair. 

"What sort of accident?" Sherlock snapped, ignoring the protestations from the speaker. He was already stripping off his latex gloves, experiment forgotten. "Yes, yes, I'll come, but you have to give me more details then _that_."

"Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid you simply aren't going to believe me without seeing for yourself."

"Try me," Sherlock said dryly. He knew very well what sort of business Mycroft got involved in. Sherlock's stomach was turning at the possibilities.

"Your brother was on a screening panel, reviewing a new compound we've been working on." Sherlock's features hardened. "The specifics are classified. The most I can tell you is that it was supposed to target cellular alterations to prevent degeneration and mutations. Safety measures failed, and the scientific team along with the entire review panel was exposed. It had unexpected effects."

John leaned forward. He was no expert on cell manipulation, not at the level this man seemed to be implying. He couldn't imagine what they could have been screening, but he was at least a doctor and he would be able to reasonably assess the damage. "Where are you, and how soon can we be there?" 

"We're at the base out in Halton. I'll have someone posted looking for you to give you clearance."

Sherlock calculated. "We'll be there in under two hours." They'd have to rent a car for the trip, and it was slightly over an hour's drive to get to Halton in good traffic. "You will call me if there are any changes, and I expect a full explanation once we arrive." Classified or not.

"I can't promise the latter, but I'll certainly make sure of the former."

Sherlock was already tugging on his coat, motioning for John to get up and do the same. "...is Mycroft awake? Can I speak with him?"

"Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry. He's awake, but he's with the medical staff right now. I'm afraid you're going to have to wait until you get here to speak with him."

"...right. Well." Sherlock's voice was softer than usual, fragile around the edges. "We'll be there shortly."

"Yes, sir." The call ended and plunged the room into a heavy silence.

John swept up the phone. "I'll find a rental agency." He was dialing and making preparations amid stealthy, worried glances at Sherlock. Within five minutes they had a car waiting for them and a cab coming to pick them up. "Do we…do we need to bring anything?" John asked when he'd ended the call. 

Sherlock remained frozen in place, staring a hole through the floor as he desperately tried to think. He'd known Mycroft involved himself in dangerous things, but he'd always been so careful, so _paranoid_ , keeping his hands clean and a level of detachment from the gritty details and necessary legwork. Mycroft had seemed untouchable, even if Sherlock knew logically that that was an impossibility, and despite the few discussions he'd had with his brother about what to do if everything went to hell... he'd not paid full attention because he'd never expected it to truly _happen_.

"...yes," Sherlock finally said once his mind caught up to his ears. "Yes. The base will have medical supplies on-hand, but I doubt the military has comfortable blankets." If they had to take Mycroft home, the ride should be comfortable, at the very least. He'd have to plan what to do next once they saw the full extent of the damage.

John swallowed and nodded, then went to find some. He returned with several from his own room clutched under his arm. "Best be going, then. Cab will be here in a minute," he said, pulling on his coat. He didn't take his eyes off Sherlock much, even though he was pretending not to. True to the cautionary nature of both his former professions, doctor and captain, John didn't want to speculate until they had _some_ concrete details. 

Unfortunately, they had two whole hours to do just that. 

The cab ride was silent. Sherlock was withdrawn, tension humming just beneath the surface. A subtle sheen and blue tinge to Sherlock's colouring told John what he needed to know: his flatmate was in shock. He had the same dazed look in his eyes that John has seen on countless young soldiers who'd seen friends fall out in the field. 

Sherlock didn't put up a fuss when John took the driver's seat in the rental car.

Finally, a ways into the drive, John decided something needed to be said. There were too many unvoiced thoughts floating through the air between them, even if none could be confirmed. 

"Look," he began, "We know he's alive. We know he's functioning well enough to be released by their staff. Whatever's happened…" ' _It could have probably been a lot worse_ ' trailed off into nothingness as he looked at Sherlock staring vacantly ahead in the passenger seat. 

Sherlock nodded, conceding the point. "That doesn't tell us much, though. A compound like that..." Sherlock's specialty was pure chemistry rather than bio-chem, but even he knew that there were a number of horrific possibilities that could still leave Mycroft well enough, in the purely mechanical sense, to be released. "I didn't think this would happen." Sherlock's mind was playing out scenario after scenario, making futile attempts to plan for every contingency. 

It was clear from the look on John's face that he was far less capable of imagining what kinds of effects a compound meant to affect the body at its cellular level would be capable of doing to a person, but he was still concerned. Reluctantly, John turned back to the road and pressed down the accelerator a little harder. 

Sherlock tried to imagine what it would be like to have his mind destroyed. It was the worst possibility he could think of, short of death. Mycroft had never been very active, so he would most likely only find physical disability to be an annoyance, or perhaps an embarrassing infringement on his privacy and self-sufficiency. Mental damage would be a blow, for both of them. 

Sherlock shivered and tried to push the image away; there was nothing to be done but wait and see what they were actually dealing with.

Time seemed to stretch on forever, but they eventually arrived at the base. Halston was a small town, and the Royal Air Force campus was equally tiny. It was an odd location to house a laboratory test facility, but the guards at the gate seemed to recognize them and waved them through. One of the men stepped forward and directed John to drive around to a small building at the Northeast corner of the base, close to the woods. A government suit was waiting for them as they drove up.

The man looked young for a bureaucrat, still in his early thirties. He glanced between Sherlock and John, quickly determining who was who. "Gentlemen. Thank you for making it out here on such short notice. If you'll follow me, I'll take you inside."

John's eyes were everywhere, unabashedly staring at the compound and the personnel. He was a sharp contrast to Sherlock's narrowly focused intensity. They followed their chaperone, with John giving his friend a wary glance. Sherlock was unreadable. 

"Can you tell us now what's happened?" John asked with not a small amount of impatient anxiety. The feeling had been building into something nearly tangible. 

The man gestured for them to follow, swiping his ID card at the door and ushering them through. The air tugged them further into the building, cool and laden with the antiseptic smell familiar to all medical professionals. "I couldn't quite believe it, when I was told. I had to see it for myself," the man explained. "We don't know what went wrong with the compound, but it didn't react in the way our staff was predicting. It didn't just stabilize human tissues to prevent degeneration - it _reversed_ the process."

Sherlock eyed the official sharply, brows drawn together. "That's absurd." The man had to be playing a prank, but every sign indicated that he was telling the truth. "You're suggesting that it's possible to reverse the aging process."

"You see, I thought the same thing - it's a joke, right? I thought some wise-ass private or corporal was pulling a prank, at first. Here, through here." They'd stopped in front of a small examination room. The official pulled the door open to let John and Sherlock in. 

There were precisely two people in the room. A slender brunette in a lab coat was leaning over her patient: a pale, freckled boy with red cherub curls who couldn't have been more than twelve, wrapped in a shock blanket. They both looked towards the door as John and Sherlock entered. The attendant gave them a politely sympathetic smile. 

John seemed confused for a moment, eyes darting between her and the boy and then to Sherlock until he looked again. The doctor's face slackened. He stopped not three yards from the small figure, unable to take another step. 

The slant and pale grey of the boy’s eyes, the shape of his nose, the slight definition in his jaw, all so small…but he could see it now. 

Mycroft was staring back at them. 

The boy darted quick looks at both of them, unable to quite hide his confusion and fear. He could tell that he was expected to know his visitors, but he couldn't remember either of them. Not until he and Sherlock locked eyes. It took a few moments for Mycroft to decipher his brother's face, transposing his memories of his five-year-old sibling onto an adult's frame. "...Sh-sherlock?"

Sherlock's mouth had fallen open in shock. His brain was arguing furiously with his senses, insisting that the situation was an impossibility. His eyes and his instinct told him otherwise. "...Mycroft."

Mycroft shivered and clutched the blanket tighter around himself. He made a terribly small silhouette in a room full of adults. Everything had seemed like a surreal dream to him thus far. Sherlock's presence only confirmed the nightmare to be reality. 

Slowly, John crouched down in front of the boy, feeling like he shouldn't be looming over him. Sherlock looked like he'd frozen in place. John licked his lips nervously. Now that he was up close, he could see just how thorough the process had been. Nothing at all remained of the adult John had grown accustomed to. Even his skin was unblemished and unmarred with the passing of time. 

"You recognize him?" John asked, his eyes searching the boy's, so much more expressive than the doctor had ever seen before.

Grey flicked sideways and sharpened. Mycroft didn't quite know what to make of John yet. "He's supposed to be _five_ ," he whispered, despair filtering into his eyes as he glanced between Sherlock and John. 

"I'm afraid this has been a severe shock to his system." The attending doctor gave a brittle smile. "The compound affected both his body and his mind. He's lost all of his memories back to his current physical age. He didn't believe us when we told him it's not 1985."

"I'm right _here_ , you know," Mycroft muttered, causing the doctor to jump. "I'm neither stupid nor deaf."

Sherlock seemed to finally have jolted himself out of his shock. He crouched beside John, afraid to reach out and touch his brother. Their gazes locked. "No, you're not, but she is correct. The current year is 2013."

John glanced between the two. His heart was sinking at the obvious distress Mycroft expressed, something he would have never seen on him normally. So John put on his best doctor's voice, calm and steady, "What was the last thing you do remember?"

"Mummy and Daddy having a fight over the nuclear test somewhere in the USSR. And then fighting over me because Daddy thought I was too young and going to get scared, even though I already know most of what would happen in nuclear war and the fallout afterwards. So he sent me off to watch _you_ ," Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "But you were too little to do very much, so I carried you out to the creek and we pretended to dig up buried treasure in the mud bank. That was yesterday."

"That was 28 years ago, Mycroft." The boy's expression fell at the pronouncement. Sherlock read the question in his gaze and shook his head. "No. We still have the house, but they're both gone."

" _Sherlock_ ," John scolded, jumping in quickly. The boy was already going through quite enough with having essentially skipped nearly three decades into the future. He didn't need to know both his parents were dead, too. John turned worried eyes back to the boy. "Look, you're going to be alright. We'll take care of you. We'll figure this out."

Mycroft's eyes had already clouded. For all intents and purposes, he'd just been dropped into another world. His only remaining tie to what his life had been was his brother, who might as well have been a stranger. _Everything_ was gone.

The boy curled in on himself and started to cry. Sherlock's eyes widened even further; he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen his brother do such a thing. It was a second or two before Sherlock scooted closer and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's diminutive frame. He didn't have much experience in consoling, but he could remember how much he'd appreciated being held during his childhood.

The two made quite a sight, at least in John's eyes. He'd never seen Sherlock honestly trying to comfort _anyone_ before, especially with physical contact. Sherlock looked a little lost as he did so, his back too straight and his arms somewhat awkward in their placement, but John could see that he was trying. It pulled at his heart to see the Holmes brothers like this. 

John glanced up to the medical attendant and the man who'd led them in. So many questions were running through his mind. Did Mycroft’s team have any idea how to fix this? Were they working on reversing the effects? How long would it take? Was his body stable? John knew the same things would be running through Sherlock's mind, but he didn't think they should be asked aloud. Not now. Not in front of Mycroft. In the end, he decided on only one. 

"Can we take him home?"

The doctor nodded; she wasn't untouched by the situation either. "Yes. We didn't find any injuries or organ damage, so he should be fine to go home and rest. He's going to be in shock for a few days at least. I've been told that you have medical training, which is fortunate - you'll need to keep an eye on him. Mr. Holmes?" Both brothers turned to look at her. It took a moment for Mycroft to realize that she was addressing Sherlock. "We'll need you to stay in contact. We're going to need your help with several things, but the debriefing can wait."

Sherlock nodded. He already knew what they were going to ask him. Mycroft had always enjoyed a sense of control, and he would have made himself critical to whatever programs he was involved in. With Mycroft suddenly out of commission for an uncertain period of time, Sherlock could only imagine that problems were beginning to pile up without the keystone holding everything together. "You have my number. I'll... endeavor to make myself available." It was difficult to promise anything with his focus on the shivering child in his arms.

With a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, John encouraged him to rise. He wanted to get the boy out of there. It may have been Mycroft's domain once, but a military complex was no place for him now. 

"Thank you for calling us," John said to the doctor. "You'll send me anything I need to know about his condition , I trust?" She nodded. "And I'll do the same," John added. 

The blanket fell away as Sherlock picked Mycroft up and stood. Someone must have run into town to grab clothing to fit him - an army base wouldn't have carried jeans and a baggy t-shirt of an appropriate size for a child. Mycroft clung to Sherlock and the detective was hit with the oddest sense of reversed déjà-vu, remembering the times his brother had carried him in exactly the same way. 

"John, let's go." There was nothing more to be done here, not now. They would need time to work out a solution. Sherlock looked down at his burden and wondered just what he was supposed to do. He had little experience with children, and none with whom he was responsible for their well-being. 

"Thank you for coming so quickly." The woman said, and crossed the room to speak to a soldier right outside the door. He nodded crisply.

"If you'll follow me, please, I'll escort you back to your car."

John trailed after them. He forgot sometimes just how tall Sherlock was. Now, with the boy's arms wrapped around his neck, and even at an age in which he would just about be outgrowing being carried, the detective did so effortlessly. Their heads were level like that, and by contrast their differences were glaring. Young Mycroft was staring at his brother just as much as they were staring at him. 

John couldn't blame him. He could only imagine what Sherlock must have looked like the last time Mycroft supposedly saw him. 

They were taken back to their car without fuss. The woman handed John an ordinary business card with a name and number but no title. She told him to call that number if anything changed. He thanked her again and opened the door to help Sherlock get the boy settled. 

Mycroft numbly accepted one of the blankets they'd brought with them, using another as a pillow. He continued to watch Sherlock as he and John got back into the front seats and turned on the car. Even the vehicle itself had been a bit of a culture shock, although not as much as he'd been expecting. "...cars don't fly yet?"

Sherlock turned to regard Mycroft in the back seat, smiling slightly once he realized the joke for what it was. "No, not yet."

"Been rather upset about that for years, actually," John added with a laugh. He probably would have said the same thing had he been in Mycroft's position. The John of 1985 would have expected vacations to the moon. 

They pulled back onto the road. "Have you eaten?" John asked before long. It remained to be seen how good his caretaker instincts were, but after passing a few restaurants he realized they might not have had much a boy would like at the base. 

"No. They were too busy trying to figure out if I was suddenly going to turn into a Dalek, or explode, or whether I still remembered top-secret security codes. And then treating me like I'd suddenly become a moron, incapable of following their conversations. I'm surprised they even thought to go get me clothes," Mycroft responded sullenly. 

"Right, well," John said a bit awkwardly. That must have been chaos all around. "Let's remedy this." He turned off the highway to find someplace with fast food. No doubt Sherlock would grumble at the quality, but in John's experience most twelve year olds loved cheeseburgers. 

When they found a suitable restaurant, he took them through the drive-thru and ordered burgers and fries all around. 

"John," Sherlock said right on cue. Disapproval colored his tone. "I don't believe this actually qualifies as food, no matter what the advertising would have you believe."

"It's still beef, isn't it?" Mycroft's stomach was already growling in response to the smell filtering into the car from John's open window. 

"Possibly. That remains up for debate."

"...but it's actually edible?" At this point, Sherlock could have told him burgers were now made out of cardboard and plastic. So long as it didn't taste horrible and was digestible, Mycroft didn't care.

"Quite," John reassured him over his shoulder. 

His memory of Mycroft's sweet tooth won out. Once they had their burgers in hand and John had divvied up the fries and drinks between them, they were set for the long drive home. 

John glanced in the rear view mirror every so often to make sure Mycroft was doing alright. He couldn't help it. He had no idea where they would keep him at their flat. With Sherlock's experiments and the constant mess of the place, it really wasn't meant for a child. Not mention that they only had two rooms. Perhaps…Mrs. Hudson could be called upon to help look after him. 

Mycroft downed the food in record time and without complaint. He probably could have even handled another burger, given that he was right on the edge of that awkward stage when boys' stomachs suddenly turned into bottomless pits. His attention alternated between taking in the scenery going by outside and examining Sherlock and John. His eyes swept up to Sherlock's face every time his brother turned around to check on him.

"Um." Sherlock and John both glanced back at Mycroft through the mirror. The boy flushed and wondered how much he was permitted to say. Whether society had drastically changed in a few decades. "...so. Did... they figure out what caused AIDS, then? If... you two are... people don't get sick from it anymore?"

John's eyes widened and he flushed about as red as Mycroft had already. "Oh no. I mean, that's not, we're not…not a couple. But…." John sighed. This couldn't possibly get more awkward. "There is no cure, yet, but the public is more aware of it and…it's prevention.” He laughed awkwardly. “A lot of things have changed, attitudes have changed." John felt a little more comfortable turning the conversation away from himself and Sherlock specifically. "It's not something that's looked down upon as much anymore." 

They were going to have to set him up with one of the laptops the when they arrived. That was going to be another experience all together. Mycroft would probably _devour_ Wikipedia. 

Mycroft frowned, glancing between Sherlock and John and reassessing. He couldn't be wrong; all the signs were there. "If attitudes have changed and it's not looked down on, why are you hiding it?" he asked pointedly. Sherlock turned to frown at him in annoyance.

"John is my colleague and work partner. We have a flatshare together. That's the extent of our relationship," Sherlock explained. 

"Bullshit." 

John winced. He hadn't expected that to come out of the boy's mouth. He sighed and decided to just lay out the facts. "I'm not, normally, attracted to men. And, according to _some_ , the body is merely transport and emotions are things to be avoided at all costs," he deadpanned, aware that maybe there was a lot about their relationship hidden in those two sentences. 

John wasn't sure if they were supposed to be treating Mycroft as an adult or as a child now. Obviously, he was intelligent enough to participate in adult topics, but the fact remained that his mind was stuck not only in adolescence, but also in 1985. 

Two sets of grey eyes settled on John as he spoke. Sherlock gave him an odd look before turning his attention back to Mycroft. "Regardless of what you think you've observed, John and I are not in a relationship. He expends not inconsiderable effort courting women and going out on dates that occasionally become extremely inconvenient." Sherlock wondered when Mycroft had developed his sense of tact, as it currently seemed to be missing.

Sherlock's annoyance just seemed to please Mycroft; an impish smile pulled at his mouth, ruining the innocent look his Grecian curls seemed to lend him. He glanced at John, smug that he'd discovered a secret that neither of them seemed to want to acknowledge. "He doesn't know, does he."

" _Mycroft._ " Sherlock's tone held an unspoken warning.

John's eyes darted between them, then back to the road. He decided to keep them there. He cleared his throat. "I'm pretty sure Sherlock could deduce everything he wanted to about me." What the detective did or did not do with that information was up to him. John didn't have to say that that inaction, in itself, said a lot. 

One thing was certain, if Mycroft didn't find a filter for his thoughts, they were going to have an interesting time in Baker Street. 

Mycroft looked like he was going to push the issue when something caught his eye outside the window. They were close enough to the city now that it could no longer properly be considered the countryside, and the first animated billboard had appeared. Mycroft watched the screen flicker from one ad to the next, craning his neck back for one last view when they passed it. Both men could almost see the gears turning in his head.

"We don't have flying cars, but we have tellies for billboards?" A spark of excitement lit him up. "Do we have replicants?"

John barked a laugh. "Lord, no. Although you might find stem cell research fairly interesting. And the internet. And oh, are we going to have to go to the movies." 

As they entered the city, John began mentally listing off things that they could do to show off the new millennia. Maybe…hopefully, it could even be fun. 

"Oh God." Sherlock could already imagine what was going to happen as soon as Mycroft realized how many new things there were to explore and watch. Although... that might be fortunate. Having a backlog of stimulating activities would keep Mycroft occupied when he needed to work. "The new seasons of Doctor Who alone will keep him busy for a few days."

Mycroft was suddenly in the space between the two front seats. " _Seasons_?" Mycroft's voice, already the higher pitch of a child's, went up another octive. " _Plural_? What Doctor are we on?"

"Get back in your seat or you aren't going to be watching them at all." 

John's laughter was turning into snorts. Thankfully he was already having to slow for traffic lights. Sherlock's normally grumpy attitude was going to finally come in handy. There was no doubt that though John could try, he might not be a match for a Holmes when it came to discipline. 

They had to return the car and take a cab back to the flat. And that was when they discovered that walking with Mycroft at this age was unexpectedly awkward. He and Sherlock were both well over 30, and people they passed kept giving them funny glances. They _could_ have looked like a family, he supposed. He really didn't want to think about what else they could have looked like. 

Mycroft was short-circuiting with excitement. His grief and shock at losing everything he'd known was currently being overridden by the number of things that were marvels for someone transplanted from 1985. He'd already extracted a promise from John and Sherlock to ride the London Eye and expressed no small amount of envy over an iPad he'd spotted someone using. He was strangely displeased with John's explanation of mobile phones, his primary concern being that people would get rid of call boxes.

Sherlock was not adapting well to his new role. He wasn't oblivious to the stares they were all getting, even though he put on a nonchalant pretense. Having his brother continuously look to him for answers and reassurance was _terribly wrong_ , and the difference in height made it impossible to ignore what had happened. Sherlock couldn't just pretend that Mycroft was in disguise for some absurd secret service mission - major portions of Mycroft had been erased and reset. He didn't remember any of the fights and events that had driven them apart... but he didn't remember all of the moments Sherlock treasured from his childhood, either.

It was a relief when they finally arrived at their flat on Baker St. It had been difficult to keep up with Mycroft wherever they went. 

Unfortunately, they ran into Mrs. Hudson on her way out. "Boys!" she called as they headed up the walkway, "Just popping over to the shops. Is there anything you need? Goodness! Who is this handsome young thing?" 

John kicked his feet and scratched the back of his head, forcing a smile. "Uhm, well… Mrs. Hudson, this is…Mycroft. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson."

Mycroft grinned. It hadn't taken him but a moment to scan the older woman over, and he'd already decided that he liked her. He straightened up a bit and tilted his chin; older people were always easier to influence if they liked him, and formal manners seemed to go a long ways towards establishing rapport. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson's features melt into confusion as she processed the likelyhood of two boys being given the same unfortunate name, then took a closer look at the boy's face. He caught her just as her balance wobbled. "Mrs. Hudson, we're just going to take him upstairs. He'll be staying with us for a while. We can explain, but it would be best if you sat down for the duration." 

"Oh my…" she stared wide eyed as she leaned into Sherlock. 

John jumped in to help and supported her, and together they helped her back up the steps. "Come along, Mycroft!" he called. "She'll be alright."

"How, how did this happen? Is he well?" Mrs. Hudson's eyes were like saucers. 

"Yes, yes. He'll be fine," John said as they sat her down in the kitchen. "Let me just make you a cuppa." 

Mycroft shadowed along behind them, watching Mrs. Hudson with curious eyes. He took a chair next to her, feet swinging absently as they failed to touch the ground. "...I used to know you."

"Yes, Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson is our landlady. You met her when I first moved into my flat, and several times thereafter when you came to check up on me." Mycroft's mouth had settled into a sullen line again, his displeasure at not being able to remember showing through. "Mrs. Hudson, there was an accident. I don't know all the details, but the result is before you. Mycroft's as fine as he _can_ be," Sherlock said, ignoring the frown his brother shot at him. "But we don't know how long he'll stay like this."

"Well that's…." she took a breath and her fingers fiddled with a serviette, "quite a lot to take in. Oh, and for you especially, dear. I can only _imagine_." She leaned over and patted Mycroft's knee just as John arrived with the tea. He'd found a mug for everyone, figuring they'd need it. Mrs. Hudson accepted hers delicately. 

Mycroft quickly hid his distaste for being patted; Mrs. Hudson didn't mean it to be anything but comforting. He took a sip of his tea and pulled a face, then got to his feet and took his mug off to the kitchen in search of something sweet to put in it.

John stood and looked round the flat. The place was…a mess. Evidence of Sherlock's experiments was everywhere. Textbooks littered the tabletops and blankets and other odds and ends were strewn about the furniture. He really wasn't sure where they were going to put the boy. 

Sherlock was pondering the same dilemma that John was. "...I suppose we'll have to put him on the sofa until we figure something out." They'd have to go shopping for another mattress. God only knew where they'd find room to put another bed, even if it was just a single.

Mrs. Hudson floundered for ideas, but didn't come up with many. "There's the room in the basement, but you wouldn't be wanting that. It needs so much work, not to mention the mold…." She set her cup down firmly and regarded Mycroft as he wandered back into the room, stirring two sugar cubes into his mug and crunching on a third as he slid back into his seat. "But I'm only just down the hall, if these boys drive you crazy, you can come sit with me for a while. How's that?" 

John had to hide a smile. Mrs. Hudson didn't have any reservations about treating him like a child. Her motherly instincts were doing just fine. 

"Ok." Mycroft didn't know how interesting it would be, but he was confident that he could sweet talk the older woman into a number of things. It wouldn't have to be endless tea and niceties while listening to adult reminiscing. 

Sherlock had finished his tea and sprung back to his feet, pacing the room and tidying up by condensing smaller piles into bigger piles. He paused when he reached the mantleplace, lost in a memory for a moment. He carefully pried the knife out of the mantle, flipped the blade shut, and pocketed it. He'd have to be more careful about where he left certain things so long as Mycroft was with them.

John set about finding some blankets and a pillow for the sofa. He brought them down and set them in a pile beside it. "We'll have to get you some clothes and things…. Maybe it would be a good idea to stop by your house? I mean….there might be some personal things there you might want?" Even as he said it, John's confidence faded away. Mycroft likely wouldn't recognize any of it beyond family photo albums. 

"We may have problems with that," Sherlock answered quietly. "Mycroft's house is a study in paranoia. I tried getting in about a year ago and couldn't get past the security measures. He won't remember the codes, and even if we manage to break in the old-fashioned way, we don't need added complications from the Met. I doubt they'd believe what's going on, even if we brought Mycroft with us."

Mycroft's expression had fallen again as he stared into his tea mug. The question had just reminded him of everything that was lost. He doubted that his adult self had kept many of his old possessions. Worse yet, there were probably inherited items in the house. He had the irrational notion that, so long as he didn't see tangible evidence that his parents were dead, he could just keep pretending that they were still out there - retired and living in Sussex, perhaps, or vacationing in some exotic location. "It's fine," he murmured, kicking at the air.

John frowned. He sat down in the chair next to the boy. "We'll find a better way eventually, even if it means having to come up with some story for the Met. In the meantime, whatever you want, whatever you need, you can just ask us." 

Mrs. Hudson smiled encouragingly. 

Mycroft didn't know what he wanted; he wanted to be alone, but he already _was_ , in a way, and that only made him want company. Even if he technically knew Sherlock, he didn't really _know_ him - all of these people were strangers. 

"I need more clothes. This is all the doctors got me." Even John was too big for Mycroft to be able to borrow clothing from him. "...and I'd like to go to the library." Books were familiar, comforting, even if they were full of new knowledge.

"We can take you shopping when you feel ready to go out." Sherlock knew that it would have to be soon, but he couldn't fathom Mycroft wanting to venture out into modernity again after the day's events and the long ride home.

"How about having a look at the biggest encyclopedia in the world?" John asked and went for his laptop. He logged on and opened it up for the boy, browsing to Wikipedia. "If you have a question about anything at all, chances are you can find it here." He typed in a few basic search queries to show Mycroft how it was done. 

Mycroft had already seen someone operating a tablet on their ride back to the flat, but evidently hadn't quite grasped all the possibilities it entailed. His eyes couldn't get any wider. "Wait. So computers are small, but now have enough storage to put a huge encyclopedia on them?" The boy stared at the computer like it had turned into a unicorn. Possibly a unicorn made entirely out of candy. "What else can it store? What was the screen you were on before you picked the encyclopedia?"

John blinked. _Right._ "Well, this data isn't exactly stored on the computer, we're just browsing to it through a connection to other computers where it’s stored. That's…the internet, basically. There are sites for everything, and anyone can make them. That first one was Google. You can search for other sites there." And then John got the idea to show off just a little. "Actually, if you want to see what your brother and I have been up to, I have my own website. More like a journal of sorts. I keep logs of the cases we solve."

There was a heartbeat of silence, Mycroft listening and watching John navigate with the browser before their gazes met. The boy was actually _quivering_. "...c-can I have one of these?" Mycroft asked, pointing to indicate the laptop as a whole. "Of my own?" His mind was already humming with the possibilities - especially if _anyone_ could make a site and connect to everyone else. He wouldn't be limited to what the local libraries or bookstores were willing to stock. He would be able to learn about anything he wanted.

John was a little startled at the boy's eagerness. He'd expected Mycroft to be impressed, but instead he looked almost crazed with the idea. His eyes were huge and suddenly his sweet face didn't look so innocent anymore. 

John glanced worriedly to Sherlock. "Uh…well….I don't see why not….? You can use this one in the meantime while we find you another. 

Sherlock had watched the exchange with no small amount of concern. Mycroft might not have any remaining memories of their time together, but Sherlock had no problem recalling trouble points with his brother. "That should be fine. John?" Sherlock beckoned for John to follow him as soon as he looked up, earning him a brief look of curious suspicion from Mycroft. He led John through the kitchen hallway to his room, confident that Mycroft would stay put with the laptop and Mrs. Hudson's watchful eye.

Sherlock glanced back down the hallway just to be certain before closing the bedroom door. "We need to be careful with Mycroft, John. There are probably a few things you should know." Sherlock couldn't be completely certain that his brother's personality would end up the same, with so many life experiences erased, but the look Mycroft had given the computer had given Sherlock a bad sense of foreboding.

John looked no less startled and more than a little bewildered. Sherlock was looking down at him, bent so that they were nearly at eye level to communicate just how serious he was, and rather than finding it endearing, it gave John an extreme sense of trepidation. 

He licked his lips and stared into intense grey eyes. "Like…what, exactly?"

"If my brother has essentially remained the same, certain interests and habits are going to manifest." Sherlock began counting off items with his fingers. "We learned how to observe and deduce together. Or, rather, he learned it first and began to teach me when I was old enough for the lessons to stick. He enjoyed going people-watching, but also playing with the people we observed - using deductions to frighten them, seeing what emotional reactions he could provoke, or using persuasion and social engineering to get what he wanted. Or simply to experiment with what was possible, at times."

"I learned how to pick locks and pockets from him, as well. He only got caught doing it once, when we were both very young, but neither of us stopped. We just got more careful. We both get bored, but we had very different reactions to it sometimes, and different methods of coping."

John nodded slowly. He was turning over Sherlock's words in his head. Like clockwork, the ideas clicked into place one by one. Mycroft was going to be manipulative, probably. If not that, then he was certain to at least be _capable_ of many things other children could not do. They would have to keep a close eye on him, definitely. But…

"Different?" John asked. "Different how?"

"I remember a number of things. Sometimes it was like he was in physical pain. Other times he suddenly turned emotionless and robotic, or went into a state of catatonia." Sherlock's gaze lost focus as he pulled upon old memories. "He never destroyed things in the house when we were younger because our mother would have severely punished him for it, but he was far more likely to play with people when bored in ways that would probably be described as cruel."

Sherlock wondered if he ought to tell John about the pet rabbit.

John chewed his lip and glanced to the door as though he might see through it. They couldn't hear much from the kitchen but the soft murmur of Mrs. Hudson's voice, punctuated at times with Mycroft's. And that was a voice they were all going to have to get used to, even if, in a way, it did sound vaguely like him. 

"Maybe it's best we don’t leave him alone with Mrs. Hudson, then." John said quietly. 

"Possibly, although it's more likely that she'll remind him of the nanny our parents hired for a brief period. I barely remember her, but I don't recall him ever venting his frustrations on her. The most he did was talk her into allowing extra sweets, or into playing along with a cover story on occasion." Sherlock paused and listened to the sound of laughter from the other room. 

"I will have to ask you do hide your gun and doctor's kit somewhere where it won't be discovered if he goes through your room."

"Yeah, yeah I can do that," John nodded with a sigh. He supposed those were natural requests for having any child in the flat, even if Mycroft, as opposed to most, might deliberately seek them out. He also supposed that he would have to be on the lookout for this odd behavior. Sherlock had been known to fool him more than a handful of times into doing various things, or letting Sherlock do various things, for one secret reason or another. Usually John wasn't even aware of it until whatever the detective was up to came full circle. "I'll do my best to keep an eye on him, but Sherlock, if he's anything like you…."

"He is. Or at least, at this age, he is." Sherlock's expression soured. It was necessary, of course, to warn John of what to look for, but Sherlock didn't like how badly it reflected on himself in comparison. "He'll read you to try to determine your leverage points and then attack them. If you're swayed by perceived innocence, or pity and a desire to take care of others, or you’re easily intimidated, he'll adjust what he presents to you in order to get what he wants. The problem is going to be determining when it's real," Sherlock sighed.

John shifted uncomfortably. He couldn't ignore the way Sherlock was acknowledging - revealing, really - that these were his own tactics. It sent a chill down John's spine to have what had always been a very strong suspicion in the back of his mind confirmed aloud, and now to be dealing with another Holmes who worked just the same. One who looked, with his soft eyes and cherry curls, like the very picture of innocence and vulnerability. 

John licked his lips and shifted to his other foot. He wanted to tell the detective that if he could deal with Sherlock, he could deal with Mycroft. He could find out when the boy was real and when he was manipulating John….but he wasn't so sure that he _could_. Even he could see that Sherlock usually wasn't out to use him as a means to other ends. Whether that was because the detective liked him or because Sherlock simply wasn't set on achieving those ends was anyone's guess. John suspected a little of both. Mycroft, especially an adolescent Mycroft who didn't know John, was held back by neither. 

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and set his jaw. "I might need your help."

The look John had given him had caused something in Sherlock's chest to tighten painfully. John was clearly reassessing their relationship, re-examining and double-guessing all of their previous major interactions and wondering whether all of them were manipulations. 

"I'll help whenever I can. It... would be difficult to train you to know what to look for given that we have no time. A lot of it is reading micro-expressions, some of it is just a matter of _knowing_ Mycroft. If he's too composed and formal, he's putting up a facade, although that might just mean that he doesn't want to be seen. It's more difficult to tell the difference between when he's relaxed and acting like himself, and when he's pretending to be relaxed. The latter is almost too fluid and rehearsed."

John bit his lip and nodded. He was going to have to adopt a consistent method of dealing with Mycroft, and stick to it. He could only gather that their parents had been very strict. If they had dealt with children, two children in fact, like this, then they must have managed somehow. 

"Whatever he's doing, I'll try not to let him influence my decisions." John squared his shoulders. He'd not had much experience being a parent. Instead, he felt like he was going into battle. 

Sherlock nodded; it was going to have to be a delicate balancing act. Too much leniency and Mycroft would walk all over John. Too much discipline and denial and he'd get rebellious, maybe even run off. Sherlock remembered all too well what it had felt like to be boxed in and controlled, but he never thought he'd see it from the other side.

"John." His flatmate turned to look at him and Sherlock suddenly was at a loss for words. What did one even say in these sorts of situations? How could he explain that he only tricked John when it was necessary, that their friendship wasn't a convenient lie? 

But John was already in military mode. He'd put his defenses up and was ready to guard his softer side. With back straight and feet apart, he waited for Sherlock to give the go-ahead and release him. Fortunately for them, John had been a doctor and not a grunt. He would go into this with a mission, but he would do so with care and a steady hand. 

"Sherlock." 

Everything in John's posture said that now was not the time. Sherlock tucked the thought away to be addressed later. As his attention shifted, he noted that the noise filtering through the door had gone unusually quiet. Mrs. Hudson's gentle droning was no longer audible. John seemed to have noticed the change at exactly the same moment. Their eyes met, and Sherlock wrenched the door open.


	2. Chapter 2

John followed Sherlock down the hallway, a little nervous now that he'd just been given rather serious warnings about leaving Mycroft alone to his own devices. In spite of Sherlock's assumptions that Mrs. Hudson would be well liked by the boy, John couldn't help but worry for her. …which was almost ridiculous, really. Mycroft might turn out to be manipulative, but he still was a small boy. The two feelings warred in John's mind as they stalked quickly down the hall. Even if she'd lost him, Mrs. Hudson would probably blame herself. 

The elderly woman was settled down on the cleared couch and had apparently dozed off unexpectedly. She couldn't have been out for very long. Not even the soft click of mouse and keys punctuated the stillness - Mycroft had found John's headphones and was absorbed in something on the computer screen. His eyes flicked up as soon as he spotted movement in the kitchen. The boy quickly clicked away what he'd been looking at, pulling the headphones off and looking perfectly innocuous. Mycroft's shoulders tensed somewhat when he took in John and Sherlock's matching expressions. "That was quick."

"But not quick enough to prevent you from convincing Mrs. Hudson to rest her hip." Sherlock could already tell how Mycroft would have spun the conversation, taking advantage of Mrs. Hudson's memories of him and adopting a prim, obedient persona. The suggestion to lie down would have been taken as considerate, hospitable, and harmless.

John looked suspiciously between them and then down at the laptop. His eyes narrowed and a small frown formed over his features. At least Mrs. Hudson was fine… and then John scolded himself for the thought. He shouldn't be _afraid_ of Mycroft. "So…," he began, glad at the very least that even he could tell the boy had been up to something, "How are you liking Wikipedia?"

"It's amazing, at least for general summaries. It'll be useful for figuring out new things to look at, and it's a lot more detailed and quick to navigate than a printed encyclopedia. Hey!" Sherlock had reached down and plucked the laptop out of Mycroft's grasp. The detective moved to his chair and brought up the web browser. After a few seconds it became apparently that Mycroft hadn't yet learned about how internet usage left trails behind. The trails, in this case, were not quite what he'd expected, but Sherlock could see why he'd waited until Mrs. Hudson was no longer in a position to monitor him.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, and at that exact moment the boy realized that somehow Sherlock had been able to see what he'd looked at. His blush nearly matched his hair. Rather than face the inevitable chastisement and the punishment he was expecting, Mycroft bolted for the bathroom.

John looked owlishly between Sherlock and the space Mycroft had just been. He raised a finger, then paused. "Wait. Did he just…look up…on my…?" The doctor stalked over to Sherlock and looked over his shoulder. Mycroft had most definitely not been perusing an encyclopedia. "Oh for the love of…" John moaned, "Does _everyone_ have to look up porn on my computer?" 

"It's only sensible. You're already doing it, therefore the chances are significantly higher that your laptop is already infected with viruses and malware. Far better to keep it contained to one computer than in-" Sherlock's mouth shut at the look John gave him. He passed the laptop back to John without continuing that line of thought. "If you give a child unlimited access to information, it's inevitable that they'll want to look up topics they were told were taboo."

John groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. "Great. Just great. Welcome to the 21st Century, Mycroft." He let out a long suffering sigh and looked toward the bathroom. The door remained closed. "We're going to have to talk to him." John looked at Sherlock, knowing they couldn't leave him in there. 

"What am I supposed to tell him?" Human sexuality was not Sherlock's area of expertise, not by a long shot. He could pick up on the signals people gave off when they were attracted, most of the time - so many were close enough to other adrenaline-triggered reactions that it was sometimes difficult to separate lust from fear or anger. Sherlock knew enough to make use of it when needed or deduce when a crime had motives entwined with sex or love, but he'd never really understood it as a whole. "He worked it out on his own before."

John threw his hands up and groaned. "Really, Sherlock. Just…fine, just, sit there." And with that, the doctor rolled his eyes and stomped out of the room. His flatmate was impossible. He'd imagined Sherlock could have at least said something quoted directly from an encyclopedia about the matter, as Mycroft was _his_ brother, but apparently not. John wasn't about to leave the boy alone and embarrassed either, so that left the task squarely up to him. 

He made sure to take a moment and get into the right mental place before approaching the bathroom. He rapped his knuckles lightly over the door. "Mycroft?"

A slight rustling sound was audible from the other side of the door. "'m sorry, I won't do it again, j-just... forget it, ok?" The sniffle that followed said that everything was _not_ alright.

"Hey," John said, his voice instantly softer. "That's not why I'm here." He leaned on the door, listening intently. Sherlock's warning hadn't been forgotten, but John decided that even if Mycroft was giving him crocodile tears, he was going to say exactly what he came to say. "That computer's already infested with porn anyway." Maybe not _gay_ porn, but it didn't really matter. 

Silence stretched out between them. The door made it impossible to see what Mycroft was doing. "...you're not mad?" Even John could catch the note of disbelief in the question. Still, John hadn't barged into the room, even though it was impossible to lock the door. "...does it really not matter that much anymore?" That idea was almost as mind-boggling as the technological wonders Mycroft had seen thus far. Shame and stigma had seemed to hard-wired into society.

A soft laugh came from outside the door. "No, Mycroft, I'm not mad. It's fine, nothing you should feel ashamed about. It's just, you're _12_ …. You might want to do some more…educational research before you start looking up hardcore porn, because _that_ could land us all in trouble." Not to mention that John wasn't particularly comfortable with it anyway. Being curious was one thing, but what Mycroft had found was another. 

The door opened a crack. One pale eye peered out through the rift, looking to see if John was laughing at him. "I'm not a kid," he murmured sullenly. Mycroft had always had his age rubbed in his face whenever his parents had felt he was overstretching what _they_ were comfortable with. "I don't think I've ever been one, but people still treat me like I'm stupid and silly and can't understand adult stuff."

"Well…." John's brows furrowed. While it was true that Mycroft _hadn't_ been a kid just days ago, John didn't think that was what he meant. The doctor leaned more heavily against the doorframe, lowering himself a bit. "I don't think you're stupid. I don't think you're silly. I even knew you as an adult and I'll admit, it's difficult to see you acting this mature and not to still think of you as one, but you can't argue that your body and mind are back to those of a child. No matter how much you're capable of understanding." John met the boy's eyes, trying to make him understand. "That's…also not something you should be ashamed of."

Mycroft straightened up and his eyes narrowed. For a moment there was a shadow of his former self, calculating and self-protective, but the Mycroft as an adult had had the power, self-confidence, and stature needed to project his will. With Mycroft peering up at John with a child's face and soft curls, mouth a bit too lush with youth, the look was more bratty than anything else. "Maybe I'm stuck like this, but I can still outwit most of the adults in this city," Mycroft argued and crossed his arms.

John held up his hands. "I won't argue that," and Sherlock's warning crept like a phantom into his thoughts again, "Not at all. But, as good as you are, you're still learning." John sighed. He wasn't sure he was cut out for this. "We're _all_ still learning. But there's…more to the world than just knowing more and outwitting people. I'd still rather not see you get hurt. And I'd rather not see us get arrested for letting you browse porn either," he added as an afterthought. "That would be really awkward with the Yard."

"How would they even know? It's your computer, I don't see how they could know who's using it even if they could see what it's being used for." Mycroft made a mental note to look up surveillance techniques. After having been caught once, he didn't relish the idea of being caught again by being ignorant of the traps and pitfalls that were out there. "How am I supposed to learn if I'm not allowed to look at anything, anyways?"

John gave him a tight lipped smile. "Probably better you do that through books and articles. You know, _research_. Not porn. Everything comes out in the wash. Even if you don't get caught, best to play it safe, hm?" 

The boy was looking at him skeptically, and John had to conceded that it was difficult, arguing his point with Mycroft. Perhaps it simply came down to the point that John would prefer it if the boy's first introduction to…adult relationships, was something a little more tame, and a little more real. 

"I've already read several medical textbooks, books on general anatomy, and taken health class. Which was pointless, because I knew more than the teacher. It's all dry mechanics with a bunch of scare tactics thrown in. It doesn't actually _tell_ you anything. Neither do the psychology books I've tried." Mycroft was just glad that John hadn't started berating him about how his interests were _wrong_ and _shameful_ and _needed to be corrected_. Even if the doctor was still teetering on the edge of treating him like a child.

"Then you might want to try some from _this_ decade and see if they're any better," John countered. "I dare say they might be more open, and even…ah, in-depth, than you're imagining." John briefly wondered just how much they _would_ be introducing the boy to. "Look, there's a wealth of information on changing attitudes since the mid-century. I'd just…be more comfortable if you learn a little about it all that way first." 

Mycroft looked like he was going to argue the point, but instead of assertively squaring his shoulders, they dropped. "...ok," he whispered. Without the full force of his personality projected outward, Mycroft looked much more like what he was - a lost twelve year old boy. An orphan, even, given that his parents had suddenly been stripped away.

John swallowed. He put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "Alright," he said fondly, wishing he could somehow comfort the boy. "Ready to go back out there? Sherlock's not upset, he just doesn't know what to say about these things." John refrained from mentioning that the younger, now elder, brother had been ready to leave Mycroft to his own devices alone and hiding in the bathroom. 

Mycroft considered his brother, remembering the look Sherlock had given him as soon as he'd figured out what Mycroft had been doing. Weighed the likelihood that Sherlock might make a comment to get back at him for the needling Mycroft had given them both on the ride home. John was the softer of the two adults, no question about it. The boy swallowed and shook his head. "He's still mad at me from earlier."

"From what you said about us?" John was confused. People said that about them all the time. If they kept at it, John would get frustrated, but for the most part, he was getting used to it. John leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. "Well he shouldn't be. Happens to us rather a lot." He pursed his lips, considering, hoping to lighten the mood. "I'll tell you one secret - really, Sherlock is just an overgrown child, too." 

That got a small smile out of the boy; much as he'd deny it, it hadn't felt good to go from being the oldest sibling by a handful of years to the youngest by two decades. "I know. I can tell. He's worried about things changing, because he likes things the way that they are, so he's pretending not to notice stuff."

John looked at him quizzically. "What stuff?" Mycroft had brightened somewhat, but the melancholy still lingered about him, and John didn't know what he was referring to. Perhaps he was referring to what Sherlock had told him in private, or perhaps there had been more Sherlock had refrained from mentioning. 

"That you like him, and that he likes you back," Mycroft said, shrugging. "You keep looking at each other when you think the other person isn't going to see. You both get awkward when standing too close. You both shift your hips and feet so you're at a slight angle instead of facing each other straight on. Breathing rhythm changes, eyes dilate a bit." Mycroft's smile widened a bit at the change in John's expression.

"You didn't notice it, did you?" he asked, delighted at the chance to show off his skill. "It's not that hard. He's not hiding it very well. That's probably why you get a bunch of comments, y'know."

John looked like the world had just turned upside down. "But he doesn't…. I mean," he began, flustered, "he's made it clear that he's married to his work and not interested in anything else. _Quite_ clear." His cheeks had gone pink and he was steadfastly staring at the door hinge just above Mycroft's shoulder. "I know he's _fond_ of me, or…" Or the audience John gave him. And there he went, all his insecurities pouring out over his face, right in front of Mycroft. 

Mycroft made a dismissive noise. "That's a load of bollocks. If he's married to his work, he's on the edge of committing adultery. I think he's just scared. Maybe of you." The boy pondered for a moment; if technology had come far enough that everyone had tiny pocket telephones and amazing information access right at home, other things _had_ to have improved at a somewhat similar rate. "Do they make tiny cameras? I bet I could sneak a picture."

John flushed an even deeper red. His eyes had grown steadily wider, apparently floored by Mycroft's candidness. The boy acted as if it were the most obvious thing to him. Granted, if it had been Sherlock in his place, observing any other couple, the detective might have behaved the same way. 

"A picture of… _what_?" John asked, bordering on hysterical and desperately trying to keep his voice down at the same time. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes; really, hadn't the doctor been following the conversation _at all_? "The way he looks at you. If you try to turn around quick to look, he's just going to hide it again. He's bad at hiding it from other people, which is why other people have _noticed_." His mouth quirked thoughtfully. "Or I could just call him on it, or try to trick him into saying too much, but he'd probably do what he did in the car and get mad at me." 

John closed his mouth and cleared his throat. "Yeah, I don't expect he'd think too fondly of being tricked. Even…even with a camera." The man was fidgeting, shifting his weight. Obviously he wanted to see this 'look', whatever he imagined it to be, but he also was reluctant to breach Sherlock's privacy. No matter that he was doing it in public. 

"Fine. You'll just have to take my word on it, then." Mycroft was already weighing what the consequences might be for tricking Sherlock. His brother would get mad, but probably not mad enough to kick him out of the flat or hit him. "It's not like you're less obvious."

John ran a hand over his face in defeat. "I'll take your word for it." When he pulled it away, his face was no less crimson. "Now let's go back out in the sitting room and see what they've gotten up to. We can't hide in the hall all day." With a light hand at his small shoulder, John urged Mycroft to follow him. 

Mycroft followed along hesitantly, keeping behind John as they walked back through the kitchen to the living room. Sherlock must have roused Mrs. Hudson; the elderly woman was no longer present. Sherlock was fiddling with John's laptop when they entered.

"...surely the conversation wasn't that mortifying, John," Sherlock commented when he spotted his flatmate's ruddy cheeks.

"Ah, you'd be surprised." John cleared his throat lightly and flushed even deeper. Then he deliberately broke the moment, clapping his hands together and attempting to change the subject. "So. Any new cases pop up?" 

They still hadn't mentioned what Sherlock did for a living, though Mycroft may have been able to determine the gist of it from the titles of the books Sherlock kept, or some other such obscure way. John doubted the boy had actually read any of his blog during the time he’d had free reign over the computer. 

"Not as such, although Mycroft's former keepers gave me a call." Sherlock eyed John's odd reaction, wondering what exactly had been said in the hallway. "Mycroft wasn't the only agent that was taken out of commission by the accident, but he was apparently the most critical. They're having trouble getting a number of systems to work and are hoping, given my reputation, whether I might serve as a temporary replacement. Or at the very least get them up and running again."

"Your reputation in what?" Mycroft had finally stepped out of John's shadow.

Two pairs of eyes looked down at him. John did so with a measured fondness. "Sherlock is known for being a consulting detective. He has a…certain talent in deducing methods and motivations with very little to go on. But I'm sure you already knew that."

Mycroft blinked, grin slowly sliding into place. "Wait, so you're not a chemist? You do crime scene forensics?" Excitement radiated off the boy, similar to when he'd been told about the internet.

"Among other things." Sherlock was only too happy to preen and bask in the adoration, especially when it was coming from Mycroft _and_ John. "I get called in whenever the Met cannot handle an investigation, which is frequently. Sometimes it involves lab work, sometimes a visit to the morgue, and nearly always an inspection of the scene of the crime."

"What sorts of crimes?"

That was when John's smile froze. His eyes darted to Mycroft, standing a good head below him. He wasn't sure what it was, precisely, but he didn't like the tone in the boy’s voice. John could even see it in his body, the way he leaned toward Sherlock like a tree, reaching for something John couldn't quite grasp. John's eyes rose and met Sherlock's. 

Sherlock had been watching for it. He nodded, even knowing Mycroft would notice the silent exchange - there wasn't anything Sherlock could do about that. "A variety. We've had some independent cases about various things: missing persons, black market dealings, theft. I mostly work with the homicide department."

And there it was - the spark of interest in Mycroft's gaze deepened into an ember. "So you get called onto murder scenes? What is that like? Do you ever get to see the killers, or do the police keep you out of that bit? Is that why you have a doctor, to help examine the bodies?" he asked, pointing at John as his questions spilled over in his enthusiasm.

" _Hey,_ " John squawked indignantly. "I'm right here you know. And yes, I help. Sometimes. It's…." John wanted to quell the boy's sudden, possibly unhealthy, glee, but if he said anything other than 'bloody brilliant', it was going to sound like a lie. "…well. It's good to help," he finished, lamely. 

As soon as John confirmed his involvement, Mycroft's focus shifted from Sherlock to him. The look in his grey eyes was eerie, reminiscent of a Hollywood horror film. It belonged to the realm of fiction, where children could become possessed or be demons in disguise - not on a real child, youthful features offset by a manic sharpness that was too keen for comfort. "How many cases have you done?"

"Ahh," John fought the urge to step back and away from the boy. He barely looked _human_ anymore. "A few," he hedged. John desperately wanted to look to Sherlock for help, but he didn't want to show fear either. Irrational as that might seem, it was what his instincts demanded. "Is this a…particular interest of yours?"

"Mycroft has always been a bit of an enthusiast for horror movies," Sherlock interrupted. "Although I have to say that there's not as much similarity between film and reality as one might think." Mycroft's excitement dimmed a little and he turned to frown at Sherlock. "It's true. The bodies aren't as clean, the motives are usually dull and predictable, and the culprits often turn out to be disappointments instead of a real challenge."

"Can I come with you on cases anyways?" Mycroft asked. Even if Sherlock said it was boring, Mycroft wanted to see it for himself. It'd be a _new_ experience, at least.

"Oh no," John said quickly, "No, no, no. Absolutely not." He didn't care if he wasn't being as tactful as he could have been. There was no way John was allowing a child on the scene of a murder, even if it was Mycroft. "Lestrade would finally kick us out for good, besides."

"Who's Lestrade?"

"One of the detectives I work with. And no, you cannot come with us." Sherlock was already at a loss. If they left Mycroft with Mrs. Hudson, he'd probably just give her the slip and try to tail along in secret. Or go out exploring the city by himself. Sherlock wasn't certain what would be the worse option. "Until we figure out a better system, I think it's best if you stay with John when I get called out on a case." He'd miss the company and the assistance, but he trusted John to keep Mycroft safe and in line far more than he trusted Mrs. Hudson with him. It hadn't taken Mycroft but a handful of minutes to take her out of commission.

"Right," John agreed. "Sorry," he added to the boy, who was looking very disappointed. "But I can tell you all about them. And you can read the blog whenever you want." It didn't look like John's attempts at placating him were having any effect. "Maybe I could tell you a bit about what you were like when you were older? It seemed like you took care of some pretty cool stuff." John glanced up at Sherlock again. "And Sherlock can tell you about the cases when he comes home, and you can help him out from here, yeah?"

"I cannot give you all the details, but I only take the interesting cases, so they should give some measure of challenge." Even with the offer to share his precious distractions, Mycroft didn't look satisfied. He looked like he'd just been given a treasure only to have it crumble to dust in his hands, bitter disappointment mixing with resentment, as if Sherlock and John had just denied him out of spite. 

"It's not the same." Reading or being told about something wasn't nearly equivalent with seeing and experiencing it firsthand. Mycroft shifted on his feet, and Sherlock frowned, considering what he might offer as consolation.

"I know it's not the same. We can rent some movies, if you'd like. Or we could play chess. You always enjoyed that, once I was old enough to play." Mycroft seemed slightly mollified, and Sherlock let go of the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Could we do both?"

"We can do both," John confirmed, grateful that Sherlock could find ways to appease the boy. John would be alright with finding movies, but he doubted he'd be a match for Mycroft at any sort of strategy games. A vague sense of worry crept into the edge of his thoughts, worry that he might not be able to keep Mycroft entertained very well when they were alone. And he and Sherlock were sometimes on cases for days, working nearly nonstop until it was solved. 

Mycroft brightened up a bit. "Alright." It wasn't quite what he wanted, but it was better than getting nothing at all. He looked up at John and didn't miss the slight twitch the doctor gave. Grey eyes turned upwards, catching the lingering fear that clung to John. A flicker of hurt passed across Mycroft's face, quickly hidden.

Sherlock had already set the laptop aside and risen. He wandered toward the bookshelves, finally spotting a dusty box on one of the top shelves. A quick inspection inside revealed a dusty but complete chess set.

John took a seat in his armchair and settled in to watch. 

Mycroft was a very strange child. That couldn't be denied. Sherlock's warnings repeatedly entered John's thoughts whenever the boy did something that seemed…out of place. Like being overly interested in murders. But what Sherlock had not said much about was the very apparent fact that Mycroft was _also_ still as vulnerable as any other child. John could see it. Glimpses, maybe, but they were there. And maybe that was why Mycroft had gotten so very good at using people, even at this early age. Maybe he was method acting. Once the act was learned by rote, he… _they_ , in fact, would have been able to take it apart and analyze the nuances of their manipulations with that frightening Holmes intellect. 

Sherlock dusted off the pieces and the two began to set up the board on the table. Mycroft had chosen the black pieces for himself, which left Sherlock with the white side. "You can take the first move," Sherlock said, and Mycroft moved one of his pawns forward two spaces without hesitation.

The brothers slipped into an uncanny synchronicity as the game unfolded, silent but for the clicking of the pieces on the board. The first game unraveled rapidly, with Mycroft grinning as he toppled Sherlock's king. Sherlock scowled and they reset the board, starting the dance over again. Sherlock took more time with his moves during the second round. Despite his added care, white pieces began to accumulate in Mycroft's kill pile again.

It was all very strange for John to watch. He'd observed a few "pros" do this at the park, and once unexpectedly at a restaurant, with their timers and crazy focus, but he wasn't sure if the people he'd seen could have matched these two. It was made all that much stranger with one of them being a child. Sherlock loomed over the board like a great black bird while Mycroft perched precariously at its edge. He looked like a little robin. John didn't even attempt to keep up with their moves and venture a guess as to who would win. 

Mycroft appeared to get too cocky; the smug grin that had developed partway through the second game evaporated as Sherlock took advantage of his distraction to slaughter a few of his more valuable pieces and pin his king. Mycroft glared daggers at Sherlock as they reset the board again.

Mycroft waited until they were a few moves in before speaking. "So when are you going to tell him?"

"Tell who what?" Sherlock thwarted Mycroft's testing of his defenses, and the boy's knights retreated back to safety. Mycroft's face was carefully blank as spoke.

"Your doctor, of course." Sherlock's mouth thinned and he castled. "I'd imagine you have quite a few things to tell him. Or do you need me to break the ice for you? Should I just pick one?"

"Uhhm…" John had a feeling he knew where Mycroft was heading with this leading statement, and he wasn't sure if they wanted to be going there. Either it was a trick to distract Sherlock from his game, or Mycroft thought it was a good opportunity to help John in the way he'd briefly alluded to in the hall. Part of John felt like he was watching an oncoming train wreck. He could get up and leave, but the brothers would just have their conversation without him. He could ask Mycroft to stop, but that would probably only make him feel bad. Or…he could call him on his game. "Isn't distracting your opponent considered cheating?" he asked with a raised brow.

"It's realistic. People don't play fair on a real battlefield."

"I'd be careful about dirty tactics, Myke," Sherlock warned, slipping back into his childhood nickname for his brother. "You're not the only one who knows a thing or two."

"And you already let a few of those slip." _Click, click._ One more white pawn down. "I haven't figured out what, exactly, but you talked to John and he came back looking like I was going to bite him when he least expected it."

"And you won't?" _Click, click._ A black piece was plucked off the board. "You might not have any memories of it, but I remember my childhood quite well. I had a good number of years to observe how you operated before your sense of fun died."

Mycroft bristled at that. He moved too boldly and lost a pawn. The hiss of frustration that escaped him was alarming, issuing from a cherub's mouth. " _My_ sense of fun died? I find that hard to believe. Maybe you're mistaking it for yours. Legal paperwork on your desk, waiting to get called in on cases like a lapdog, too frightened of breaking the status quo to even tell John how you feel, much less do anything about it?"

Sherlock's head snapped up and he locked gazes with Mycroft, both brothers glaring bloody murder at each other.

"Oh _bother_ ," John gave an exaggerated eye roll from his quiet side of the room. It didn't hide the flush that was creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. John was nearly as uncomfortable as Sherlock about this topic, possibly because he had decided long ago that there was no chance of there ever being anything more between them. Still, he fought to maintain control of the situation. "Children, please. _Behave_." 

The brothers' argument seemed to only continue in silence. They spent more time staring at each other than at the board, insults passing wordlessly through body language and facial expressions. The pace of the game increased again and Mycroft won by a landslide. Evidently the ruse had worked.

Sherlock shook his head, unwilling to admit defeat, and reset the board. One brother barely let go of his piece before the other made his move. They zipped through several games, wins and losses fairly balancing out. Both of them seemed irritated that they were not the definitive winner.

Watching them like that was rather frightening. John wondered several times, based only on the intensity of their expressions, whether things were about to get physical. Fortunately, they didn't because if they had, the doctor would have had to come between them. 

John had to wonder about the relationship between them. He'd known there to be a rift, visible on Sherlock's side more than it had been on Mycroft's, and he'd assumed that it had come about as they'd grown up together. He'd never gotten many facts on its source, but here they had Mycroft anew, without any recollection of what had happened. Yet Sherlock still worried and remained closed off to the boy. John hoped he would come around. After all, he was probably the only one Mycroft would really listen to. 

The brothers ended up in a stalemate, stalking each other across the board with their last few pieces, failing to secure any pinning moves and gain a victory. _Something_ must have passed between them, because all of a sudden Mycroft's mouth quirked up and he giggled. Sherlock gave him an answering smile. He conceded the game with a generous wave of one hand and Mycroft grinned. The boy slid out of his chair and dashed around to the other side of the table, plowing into Sherlock with a burst of laughter.

Sherlock looked a bit pole whacked but accepted the sudden display of affection. His arms encircled the boy and he didn't put up a fight when Mycroft settled onto his lap, red curls tucked underneath his chin. Sherlock's gaze flickered over towards John, clearly as confused as the doctor was.

After a bit of outright staring, John broke into a laugh, still confused, but relieved that…somehow…things seemed to have been resolved. Resolved very much for the better, in fact. John shook his head at Sherlock, bewildered, and climbed to his feet to clear away the board. 

"Looks like you both would have outdone _me_ at least," he said, giving the boy a fond glance. "What changed?"

Mycroft turned his head until one ear was settled against Sherlock's collarbone, giving John a look that was almost shy. "He reminded me of something."

"Not _something_ ," Sherlock replied and shifted to redistribute Mycroft's weight more evenly. "I snuck sweets to bribe him with, when we were younger, so he'd help make me a treehouse ship. He just needed reminding that sometimes it isn't a bad thing to be outstrategized."

"You didn't sneak nearly enough to make up for the work I had to do."

"So I'm in debt, now, is that it?"

"With interest," Mycroft affirmed, smile curling the corners of his mouth. The frightening creature they'd encountered earlier was gone, leaving only a child behind.

John shook his head again and imagined just how accurately Mycroft could probably calculate said interest if he wanted to, but the image of the two brothers playing up in a treehouse came to mind as well and John found himself giving into the mood and relaxing along with them. It was probably a very inaccurate image. He could more easily see Mycroft ordering a hired team of carpenters around the Holmes estate than he could see the boy taking hammer to wood piece by piece, even with Sherlock slipping him cake and candies. 

"I think we can manage to find a few sweets shops around here somewhere," John said with a secretive smile tugging at his mouth. 

Mycroft curled in on himself in pleasure, returning John's smile. It had been rather more difficult to spot Mycroft's weakness for sweets as an adult, but he didn't bother hiding it as a child.

"Not too many, or between candy and the movie none of us will get any sleep." 

"Tomorrow, then," John said and then clapped his hands together. "I think we might have an old pack of popcorn around here somewhere that'll do instead…. Why don't you guys see about the movie?" He wandered off to the kitchen and was heard puttering around as he looked through the cabinets. Once or twice, he made a displeased sound of surprise upon running into the various 'projects' Sherlock left behind and forgot about. 

The brothers conferred on the sofa, turning on the telly and navigating through the on-demand movie menu. There was a bit of arguing about the relative qualities of the choices available, along with their respective ratings, but eventually they managed to settle on a title. Mycroft smirked and settled beside Sherlock, waiting for John to return. The screen was paused on the opening sequence, ready to play.

The warm, buttery scent of popcorn preceded him. John set the bowl on the coffee table beside them and pulled over his chair so he could reach. He kicked back until he was comfortable and put his feet up. "Alright then, what was the verdict?" he asked, not really sure what to expect as Sherlock rarely showed interest in television of any sort. 

"Zombies were the choice of the night," Sherlock replied. "One of his favorites among the genre, although I can't fathom why. It's physiologically impossible for the dead to reanimate, given the rate of tissue decay in-" Mycroft had turned around to frown at Sherlock, who sighed and gave in. "Regardless, he hasn't seen the subgenre where zombies are quick and somewhat clever, since that idea developed relatively recently. I decided we'd give 28 Days a try."

John's eyebrows rose in response, but he nodded and looked willing to give it a go. He'd liked that movie, and it had been one of the few horror movies that had gotten under his skin. He figured that Mycroft, being Mycroft and apparently already used to scary movies, would be able to handle it. "Biologically impossible zombies in London it is," he agreed and reached over to turn off the light. They started the film just as darkness took the rest of the flat. 

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably after the movie opened on the protagonist, Jim, alone in the hospital and waking from a coma. It was a bit too close to home after having woken up to a room full of strangers in an odd and frightening setting. The London streets were more modern, not the streets of the 1980s, and there was the additional unfortunate parallel of Jim travelling to his parents' home only to find that both were already dead.

Mycroft slowly curled closer to Sherlock as the movie progressed, alternating between distress and fascination.

John kept an eye on him throughout. He couldn't read the boy's mind, nor had he any special insight to his motivations as Sherlock seemed to, but he could see that Mycroft was having some fairly strong reactions at points. On one hand, he knew that was normal for a boy his age watching a movie like this, and that plenty of kids did it and were just fine later. On the other, he worried that maybe this was pushing the limits after Mycroft had only just gone through a great deal of real trauma. 

John made sure to take handfuls of popcorn and pass it over to the boy whenever he looked upset, trying to break his attention from the movie and reassure him that he was still in the real world. 

Mycroft accepted the popcorn but never took his eyes off the screen. While he showed nervousness in all the scenes designed to spook and scare, he seemed unusually interested in the stress responses and emotions of the actors. Equally disturbing was the lack of repulsion he had towards gore; children at his age would normally be distressed by wounds and blood, especially given the jump of realism between movies from the 80s and modern special effects, but Mycroft seemed to be desensitized to it.

In the end, John couldn't discern exactly what made him uncomfortable and what didn't. He resigned himself to the notion that the only way to know was to get inside the boy's head, and that was beyond his capability. 

When the movie finished and the credits rolled, they sat in silence. It was John who moved to turn on the lights again and take what was left of the popcorn, now long cold, back to the kitchen. He returned with a cup of hot chocolate for the boy. 

Mycroft accepted the mug with slightly trembling fingers and a thoughtful expression. "...so, what do we do?"

Sherlock blinked, uncertain as to what his brother was referencing. "What do we do about _what_?"

"You know. What's the plan if there's an epidemic and people come to get us?" Mycroft asked. "The staircase coming up is narrow, so that's good for barracading, and there's the fire escape out the kitchen window to get out, but what about fighting things off?"

Sherlock stared at Mycroft. "...are you asking what my plan is should zombies decide to attack the flat?"

Mycroft shifted in his seat. "...or another disaster. _Do_ you have a plan?"

John looked between the brothers and a seed of trepidation crept into his chest. Mycroft looked insistent. "Uhm, no. No…I must admit that, so far, zombies and other unnatural disasters haven't been big on our list of worries. Those are more often reserved by the criminals Sherlock investigates and, well, they never really do come by the flat, do they?" He tried for a smile to make light of the situation. "Besides, I thought zombies were an impossibility, no?"

The look the boy gave John was pure paranoia. Mycroft wasn't convinced that it was outside the realm of possibility, biology be damned. "You don't even have a plan for if criminals come here?"

"No, Mycroft. We haven't _needed_ one."

"You mean you haven't had to use one _yet_ ," Mycroft insisted. "What about-" He gestured cryptically, giving Sherlock a meaningful look. Sherlock dismissively shook his head.

"No, there aren't many left. We haven't needed the extra security."

Mycroft gaped for a moment, speechless.

That drew an even more confused look from John. "I'm sorry, did I miss something?" For all he knew, they were talking about aliens. When neither brother was immediately forthcoming, John gave them a curious eye, but moved on. "We're in a pretty decent part of the neighborhood anyway; people don't just get snatched off the street. If someone were to break in, it'd be because they were looking for Sherlock or I. We haven't got much to steal."

Mycroft didn't seem to be soothed at all by John's statement. "Just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it won't happen. We need to make a plan." The boy was all ready to jump to his feet when Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and settled him back down.

"Not right now. Later." Mycroft fidgeted and Sherlock's expression softened, remembering all too well just how deep anxiety took hold of his brother at times. Sometimes with good reason. "We'll make time tomorrow to work on a plan, but you have to let it go and get some sleep tonight. Deal?"

Mycroft sighed, but finally nodded. "I'll try."

"Don't think about it too hard, okay?" John added. His tone held the sincerity of a man who had been through many difficult situations. "You'll be safe tonight. My room is just up the stairs and if you need anything at all, you can come get me. I won't mind." 

With that, John began pulling out the pile of blankets he'd brought down. 

Sherlock disentangled himself from Mycroft's grasp and left to get ready for bed. Mycroft watched him go with a touch of unease, turning his attention back to John once Sherlock vanished out of sight. "...can we move... _that_?" he asked, pointing to Sherlock's silent friend on the mantle place. "It's a little creepy."

"Ah, yes," John agreed. "He can stay with Sherlock tonight. Keep him company." John plucked the skull from its resting place and paused before he went to put it in Sherlock's room. This really wasn't the Mycroft he had briefly known. This Mycroft was fanciful…imaginative, and…John would almost dare go so far as to say superstitious, in the way that children often were. "Do you think you'll be alright? Here on the couch?"

Mycroft considered the room thoughtfully, eying the large windows. They were higher than the street level, but John and Sherlock probably wouldn't let him barricade the door. They also didn't have a plan, and despite Sherlock's reassurances that they were safe, the windows left Mycroft feeling exposed. "...maybe? It's... not like home." Home, where he knew where everything was, where there were spots built for hiding, where he'd had a plan for everything.

Sitting down on the table, John leveled his gaze with the boy. "Sherlock is just through the kitchen. I'll make sure he leaves his door open so you can talk to him. I'm right upstairs, and I don't mind if you need to come up for anything at all, no matter how late it is. Even if you can't see us, we're right here, okay? And I'll leave a lamp on for you, too," he added as he rose, switching on the light atop their worktable. 

Mycroft swallowed and nodded, running through the numbers in his head. How much did the comfort of light increase the danger? A sniper could see him better, and zombies in movies usually responded to light, movement, and sound. Despite the normal childhood fear of the dark, Mycroft understood that the dark was often safer by virtue of being better to hide in. "Ok."

Both men were relative strangers. John was a doctor and appeared to have some sort of military bearing to him, but Mycroft didn't know if he had any weaponry. Sherlock, however, was his brother, and smart. Mycroft settled down on the sofa and burrowed under the blankets there, deciding in that instant that Sherlock would be the more practical choice. Especially with his room so close to the fire escape.

"Goodnight, Mycroft," John said softly as he turned off the rest of the lights and then went to go deliver the offending skull to Sherlock. 

He was rubbing his temples and grasping the skull by its own when he ran into Sherlock coming out of the bathroom. "This is going to be sleeping with you for the time being," he said, holding it out for the taller man to take. "Seems I'm not the only one who finds it creepy."

Sherlock sniffed in mock-offense, taking the skull from John. "I can't imagine why. He's harmless, useful to talk to, and has none of the messiness and cost of a domestic animal." Sherlock crossed his room and placed the skull on his bookcase. "Mycroft never used to care about such trivialities."

That got John to cock his head in surprise. He gave Sherlock a quizzical look, obviously wondering when that had changed. "Not at all? Do you even remember what your older brother cared about when you were five?" He crossed his arms and leaned against the door. John never really went all the way into Sherlock's room unless he had to. 

"I have remarkably clear memories from that period. Something is different, aside from the obvious. He's always been overly cautious, bordering on paranoid, but it was always about something realistic. He's never fixated on anything supernatural or impossible, and he's never looked for reassurance and comfort so openly." Sherlock frowned, staring at John as if he might have the answers. "He's never been so plainspoken either. I could often tell what he was thinking, but he rarely _said_ it so openly."

The lines of worry on John's brow only deepened. Sherlock didn't look any surer of the situation than his flatmate. His hair was a tousled mess and there was an air of frenetic energy about him, just under his skin. "What do you think that means? That this…that this Mycroft is different, somehow? Physically…or psychologically? I mean, you had some pretty strong warnings for me right away, but then he seemed like a whole other person. Could it really just be that the Mycroft you knew was never thrown out of his own world and…well, basically dropped into an alien one? That must seem a bit supernatural to him. And, maybe he figures if that can happen…that anything can."

"I don't know." Perhaps some of it was just due to the trauma of the day, but Sherlock didn't think that explained all the anomalies. "Maybe so. There's also the fact that the sequence of events is broken. Part of who people are is shaped by their experiences. He's had the majority of his stripped away. It could very well be that the behavior I remember was due to an event he went through that I don't recall." 

That left John looking even more concerned. "That means we need to figure out how to reverse this as soon as possible, doesn't it? Or he'll be living a completely different life." His hands went to his hair as he tried to grasp the enormity of it all. "Assuming that can even be done. How can that _possibly_ be done?" Taking away years of memory and growth was one thing, and that was impossible enough, but adding it all back to the way it was before? _That_ seemed impossible. 

"I don't know. I'm uncertain how they managed to do _this_ in the first place. In... all likelihood, even if it's possibly to reverse things, I have no idea how it would affect his brain structure. If his memory loss is due to the data actually being wiped from his mind during the cell regression, I don't think it's possible to restore it." As terrible as the situation was, Sherlock could only imagine what it would be like to have the mind of a boy and suddenly get put in the body of a middle-aged man.

John shifted again, his gaze drifting to the faint glow of the lamp beyond the kitchen. "If that's true…then his best option is probably starting another life like this." John's eyes looked back up at Sherlock with a certain depth of sadness. He couldn't imagine what that possibility must be like for Sherlock. He would be essentially losing the brother he had known, almost as if Mycroft truly had died in the accident. 

The same thought must have struck Sherlock at the same time; there was a flash of vulnerability that revealed just how deep the brothers' relationship had gone, even with the disagreements and detachment that John had seen since he'd arrived in Sherlock's life. "Perhaps so." Mycroft was still alive, and that was what mattered. "I..." Sherlock shook his head. "...good night, John."

It took a moment for the smaller man to realize that he'd been dismissed, and he stood floundering in Sherlock's doorway for several moments longer than would be considered natural. He wanted to comfort his friend, but didn't know how. Especially not with something like this. Sherlock saw the intent in his eyes, however, and John hoped that counted for something. 

"I'll go make sure he's getting to sleep. Good night, Sherlock." John gave a nod, and then turned back through the kitchen, treading lightly before he entered the sitting room so not to disturb the boy if he had fallen asleep. 

Mycroft was huddled under the covers, barely breathing as he listened to John's movement across the floorboards. He'd heard snatches of the conversation down the hall, both men's voices turned into low burrs, but he’d not caught enough to have a good idea about what they'd said. Something about him, no doubt.

Mycroft heard John hesitate, still and quiet in the living room, before the sound of movement continued, growing fainter as the doctor climbed the stairs to his room. Mycroft let out a shaky breath, settling into the quiet and the dark. It was difficult not to listen to the sound of the wind on the broad panes of glass, or to think about the empty London streets slowly filling with diseased, shambling bodies.


	3. Chapter 3

When John awoke the next morning, it was very similar to the way he did every morning but for the little anomaly sleeping downstairs on their couch. His first thoughts were of Mycroft while he rubbed the sleep blearily from his eyes. All seemed to be quiet downstairs, so he allowed himself a few moments to get dressed and run his fingers through his hair before he went to the stairwell. 

He was yawning and already thinking of putting on a pot of coffee and brushing his teeth by the time he strolled through the open door of the sitting room. He trod softly so as not to wake the boy as he passed the couch, who…upon second glance, was no longer sleeping there. 

John stopped. He looked around. Mycroft was nowhere in sight. Not in the kitchen, and he hadn't gone upstairs… Quickly, John strode to the bathroom. He wasn't there. With his heart leaping in his chest, John knocked on Sherlock's door. The git had closed it, even though he was supposed to be watching out for his brother. 

When no answer came, John turned the handle and swung it open. "Sherlock, Mycroft's gone miss—" 

He was cut off mid-sentence by the scene in front of him. Instead of just the one gangly Holmes lying twisted in his own sheets, there was now one smaller lying with him, curled into Sherlock's side. 

Sherlock raised his head. A glance told John to be silent - Mycroft was still sleeping. Sherlock slowly disentangled himself from the smaller body and shifted away. Mycroft stirred, then resettled into the warm valley left by Sherlock's departure.

Sherlock slid off the bed, snagging his dressing gown and pulling it on. John was pushed back into the hallway and Sherlock closed the door behind them. After a moment's listening, Sherlock ushered John back towards the kitchen. "Coffee is in order, I think."

Wide eyed, John could only nod in agreement. 

When they had a pot brewing and both men were waiting, leaning against the kitchen table, John broke the silence. "So that was…unexpected," he made sure to keep his voice down, but the astonishment still radiated through. "What happened last night?"

Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft became convinced that the living room wasn't safe. He was worried about zombies coming up the stairs and breaking into the flat, or snipers getting him through the windows, or old criminals seeking us out and breaking into the flat. He decided my room was safer, by virtue of location and the fact that I was in it." 

John pursed his lips in thought. The boy's actions sounded eerily along the track of Sherlock's worries about him last night. Sherlock had mentioned that Mycroft had been a fan of horror films, even in his memories. John could only assume that meant the boy hadn't usually been this affected by them. "Did he happen to mention why he was so afraid of all these things? I mean, was it from the movie, or….?"

"Well, the movie obviously affected him," Sherlock responded, a hint of a smirk quirking his mouth. "The other two fears were a bit more rational, from his perspective. People who work in law enforcement are sometimes targetted by criminals, and he's still operating on worries ingrained into us both from childhood. Our family was a bit unusual in that it wasn't unheard of for there to be assassination or kidnapping attempts, so both of us were warned early on to be wary of strangers and to watch people, try to figure out their motives and intentions. It simply hasn't sunk in that he doesn't need to worry about such things anymore because, for him, that was a real danger only yesterday."

"Is that where this paranoia stems from?" John asked. The picture Sherlock was painting for him was becoming somewhat clearer. "Without your parents around to protect him…. And, you lived where, in a guarded estate or something in the countryside, right? Well…now he's just got us, who've got no backup, living in a tiny flat in central London, and our best security is a little old lady on the floor below." John could see where the boy’s fears might be stemming from. The Mycroft of Sherlock's memory would have had a lot of safety measures already put in place for him by the structure of his nuclear family. Perhaps that had been one of the reasons he had worked so hard to keep a kind of structure in place later in life. 

"I think a large part of it is simply part of his personality, but what we were told as children just exacerbated it. He's not used to living like this, in a dense urban area, being completely unfamiliar with his surroundings and not being able to see any security measures in place." The coffee machine beeped and Sherlock paused to pour them both a cup. "It would probably be worse if he could remember the rest. He was fourteen when our father got killed, despite all of our security. He became a bit obsessed after that about trying to protect both of us."

John stared into his coffee. "He's more affectionate with you than I thought he would be." Or rather, than the Mycroft of old had been, outwardly. If that were true and his obsession had run that deep, evidenced by John's kidnapping when he'd first moved in and repeated attempts to survey Sherlock's life from afar, maybe that sentiment had just been kept well hidden. 

“I'm... not used to it, anymore," Sherlock admitted. Tension settled into his shoulders. "We used to be very close when I was much younger, but that changed once he started getting serious about his career. He ended up in the hospital due to an accident, and he wasn't quite the same afterward. He started giving in to Mummy's expectations, then trying to get me to give in. Things got worse when I started having trouble with school."

John had to read between the lines. Sherlock was summarizing huge events in their lives. He could only imagine the animosity growing between one brother bent on keeping the other safe and sound with a stable career and the other being….well, Sherlock - headstrong, stubborn, and obsessed with danger. As smart as Sherlock was, the structured environment of academia was simply not the place for him and John could see why. 

"And that's where the real falling out began?" John asked, finally taking a gulp of his coffee. 

"Something like that. I dropped out and disappeared onto the streets for a few years, afterwards, and our reunion was not... pleasant." Which was the understatement of the year. Sherlock suppressed an urge to flinch, remembering one of the few times the fights between them had actually become physical. "He wasn't pleased that I'd dropped off the face of the earth, or that I'd abandoned school, or that I'd been homeless and using. Mycroft promptly took over my life and forced me into a number of situations, and I wanted little to do with him after that."

"And that was…just a bit before the time we met, wasn't it?" John asked, working the thought around in his head. "Explains why I've never seen you two get along so well before." He raised his eyebrows and looked at Sherlock. "But now he's been 'reset', and he'll need you to be the stable one for a change. Because he isn't anymore."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "...I don't know how to do that. I'm unaccustomed to dealing with children, even if he's advanced for his age and I know him well." Taking care of people had never been Sherlock's area of expertise. He had enough trouble taking care of _himself_.

"Right." John understood what Sherlock meant. He was not affectionate with anyone. Not even with John, who everyone else thought to be his secret lover. Or something. John pushed that thought to the back of his mind and focused on the present. "Well it's a good thing you have me around, isn't it?" he said with a tight smile. 

Grey eyes fixed on John, reading his thoughts from the small signs and micro expressions before they were wiped away. "John, I did not mean to imply that this is merely a domestic burden to be dumped in your lap. I'm simply not skilled at any of this." Affection. _Emotions_. Irrational behavior and instinctual impulses. "All that I've done thus far is mimic things that I remember Mycroft doing when I was younger, retailoring everything to his tastes and different personality."

That made John wince, but he quickly softened his expression. "Well, that's a start. That's one way to learn, anyhow. Just…keep trying to do that and maybe it'll become more natural?" There was a note of doubt in his voice, hopeful as it was meant to be. Though John steadfastly believed that Sherlock had emotions just like everybody else, and he often saw them come to the fore whenever the detective was upset or impassioned with his work, he still suspected that Sherlock's weren't always quite normal where people were concerned. "And if it doesn't, then…then I'll do my best to be there."

Sherlock nodded. He'd deleted portions of knowledge in some areas as irrelevant to his life and his work, but such things might actually come in handy right now. He'd have to spend some time observing and reacquiring some data, and quickly. "I have confidence that I can learn some of the necessary techniques and behaviors, but it's... going to take time." He took a sip of coffee, mulling over the words in his head. "I'm going to need help, regardless. Mycroft's... complicated. He takes rejection and criticism deeply to heart, and his interests and personality tend to generate both from people."

"Then we'd better make sure he can read our real attitudes toward him, now shouldn't we?" John fixed Sherlock with a look. It was all well and good that he would try to be more outwardly expressive toward the boy, but Mycroft could see through people as well as Sherlock could. If Sherlock didn't feel anything for Mycroft now, he was going to have to reach deep down until he did or Mycroft would see right through it. 

Sherlock returned John's look with a startled expression, surprised enough that his usual neutral, almost-deadpan facade completely slipped. "...you think I don't feel anything for my brother because I'm not expressing it outwardly." That was unthinkable. Surely John wasn't so completely sense-blind that he couldn't see it?

Then again, John was particularly unobservant at times. "Just because I don't know what to do doesn't mean I feel nothing for him, John. I'm also perfectly aware that he's not the same person I've fought with over the past few years."

"Well you'd better let _him_ know that, too." John didn't look shocked. "I mean, I know you must feel something, deep down and locked away somewhere, I hope… but you seem to have buried it under all of these other emotions about him and you never let on, so much so that-…and I'm glad I seem to be wrong in this case, but so much so that I would have thought you'd convinced yourself that you didn't feel anything."

"Have I ever stated that I don't feel anything?" Sherlock asked. "Do you really think so little of me, that I happen to be devoid of emotions if I don't wear them on my sleeve or permit them to cloud my judgment?" Perhaps John wasn't talking about Mycroft, after all, but something else. "Mycroft knows where to look and how to read me. He'll be able to see what he needs to see."

"You _just_ , only a _moment ago_ , said that you were so bad at this, this emotional thing, that you were mimicking it from other people!" John jumped to defend himself. "You know what? Never mind. Good. It's good that it's Mycroft, and he should be able to see through you." _Because anyone else probably couldn't,_ was left unsaid. John held up his hands, trying to defuse the sudden tension between them and stop himself from spluttering any further. "Look, I'm going to go check on him. For all we know he's listening through the walls," John added and beat a hasty retreat toward the hall. 

Sherlock watched him go, wondering what to do with this new tension between them and trying to ignore the distress John's words had evoked. Perhaps... it would go away if he ignored it. John would forget about it and move on, becoming cheerful again, and it would be safe for Sherlock to delete the memory of the fight.

John turned out not to be far off from his prediction. Mycroft had to scramble backwards in order to avoid being hit as Sherlock's door swung inward. The boy had borrowed a t-shirt that John had never seen before as a makeshift, oversized nightshirt. "...John?"

"Oh, hello. You're up," John said a bit awkwardly, wondering how much he had heard. He sighed. "Sorry if we were being too loud. But I'll have breakfast on in a minute if you're hungry?" John smiled and he looked hopeful. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was already wafting through the flat. 

"What kind of breakfast?" Mycroft perked up. He could still see the residual signs of anger and tension lingering in the doctor, but John didn't seem inclined to vent them on anyone else. Mycroft relaxed and rocked back on his heels. The oversized shirt looked ridiculous on him, only serving to remind John just how _small_ the boy was in comparison to the man who'd towered over John and tested him with a menacing air and offers of bribes. "What're we doing today?"

"Eggs and toast first, _then_ we'll see what plans we have for today. C'mon." With a hand at the boy's shoulder, John led him back to the kitchen and allowed him to take a seat at the table. He set about making breakfast and shooing Sherlock away from the stove." We'll have to find you a toothbrush. I think I have a spare or two somewhere… Ah, that settles it. We'll be shopping today. Don't suppose you'd like to join us, Sherlock?"

"I suppose I'd better, else Mycroft will end up with a collection of jumpers and slacks and little else." Sherlock perched on his armchair and watched John bustle about in the kitchen.

Mycroft stayed velcroed to John's side, moving with him as he collected ingredients and went about making breakfast. "Is that all we're shopping for? Clothes and basic stuff?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," John said, twirling a butter knife and loaf over Mycroft's head. "Is there something else you want to get?" He had eggs sizzling on a frying pan and toast pushed around them in minutes. It smelled delicious. He didn't seem to be bothered by Mycroft's proximity either. He fell into step with the boy next to him, aware of his presence and letting him watch John work. 

"You said I could have my own computer, yesterday." Granted, that was before he'd gotten caught, so maybe both of the adults had reconsidered their promise. Mycroft glanced up, watching John for a reaction. "I need stuff to do, or I'm going to get bored." The last word was heavy in the air, weighted as if John should know what boredom would entail. 

John paused and looked down at him. He could recognize the ploy for what it was, but truthfully…he didn't have many strong feelings about keeping Mycroft away from the internet. It would be a losing battle anyway when all the boy needed was access to a phone or a tablet. Whatever perils awaited there were far less dangerous, to John's mind, than the ones Mycroft had previously been accustomed to in the real world. 

And thus, it was with this mindset that he did not fully grasp the gravity of giving a single computer to a boy like Mycroft. "I suppose so. As long as you use it responsibly, I don't see why not."

A grin split Mycroft’s face and small arms encircled John's waist. His enthusiastic gratitude nearly caused a kitchen accident as John struggled to keep his balance and not drop the skillet. "Thank you, John," Mycroft said, ingrained manners finally kicking in.

Sherlock watched the exchange, pleased with his brother's display of happiness but feeling more than a touch of unease. Information had always been a double-edged sword in Mycroft's hands. "We'll be making sure that you use it responsibly," Sherlock added. Mycroft rolled his eyes and dismissed the comment.

John ruffled the boy's hair once he'd managed to put the skillet down. His eyes met Sherlock's, and he had to wonder how much trouble this would be. 

"Alright, alright, sit down. Don't get too excited. Eggs are done." John nudged Mycroft into the chair and he began serving up the eggs and toast. A minute later he joined the boy at the table. "You too, Sherlock. You're looking far too skinny over there."

"Transport," Sherlock sniffed, although he didn't refuse the offered fare. "I don't need to eat more than the most basic requirements."

"Vain," Mycroft muttered around a mouthful of toast. Sherlock eyed him, getting a raised pair of ginger eyebrows and a smirk in return.

"We already know why _you_ disagree, sweets-fiend. You've always been easy to bribe."

"Have not!" Mycroft had no memories of bribery beyond their agreement for building the treehouse, but he objected to the assertion on principle alone. It was Sherlock's turn to smile. The brothers stared at each other in silent exchange before turning simultaneously to the food in front of them, dropping the disagreement as quickly as it'd started.

John had to fight to keep his face straight as he looked between them and pretended to be working on his toast. They ate comfortably after that. It was rare for John and Sherlock to enjoy a meal together at the table, so with their guest present, John decided to enjoy it while they could. The bigger worries they had to face would have to be dealt with later. 

When they were finished, he cleared away their plates and tossed them in the sink. "So," he clapped his hands together. "Let's everyone have a shower and change and be ready to go in thirty, yeah?"

"I just have the clothes from yesterday," Mycroft pointed out, but he gathered them up from where he'd left them folded beside the sofa. The boy left to take the first turn in the shower, and Sherlock returned to his room. After a few minutes the bathroom door opened and Sherlock took Mycroft's place, leaving Mycroft to wait in the living room. He stared out the windows at modern London while his hair slowly dried and turned into a tangle of curls.

John had just come back downstairs after getting his things together when he saw the boy. With the sun glancing off the side of his face, lighting up his pale skin and making his eyes shine, he made such a striking vision that John stopped for a moment. It was hard to believe that this was the same Mycroft who had visited Sherlock multiple times before, whom John had dismissed as quite ordinary. 

When the boy glanced his way, John shook himself and laughed. "You're gonna break hearts someday, you know that?"

Mycroft flushed almost as red as his hair, curling in on himself shyly. "I dunno about that. I get teased at school a lot. For not liking sports, for liking to study too much, for being too smart, for being posh, being ginger, having a funny nose." One of Mycroft's short legs kicked at the empty air sullenly, remembering the other kids with distaste. "They told me I'm creepy and a freak and that gingers don't have any souls, they just steal other people's."

John raised an eyebrow. "Hm. Well, you did threaten me once or twice when you were older, but fortunately I didn't think you were all that creepy. You'll have to ask Sherlock how all that turned out in the end, but I can't imagine it lasted very long." John smiled reassuringly. He turned his attention to the bathroom moments later. "Hey Sherlock, stop taking up all the hot water!"

"Vain," Mycroft giggled. His laughter only increased when Sherlock finally exited the bathroom, dripping and glaring at them both through the kitchen as if he'd divined the fact that they were laughing at him. The detective disappeared into his room to dress, leaving the bathroom open for John. Mycroft watched John leave to take his turn, his gaze returning to the windows as soon as the doctor was gone from view.

John was back out and, with a dash up and down the stairs, he was ready to go in record time. Somewhere along the line he'd taken the role of herding the other two about. He gave a knock to Sherlock's door, found his keys and wallet, and waited with Mycroft in the sitting room. If they'd been on a case, there would have been no keeping up with the detective. As it was, shopping didn't have quite the same effect. 

Sherlock finally wandered back out to the living room, rounding the corner to snatch up his coat. Mycroft grinned as the dark fabric swirled around his brother. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah." Mycroft was still eying Sherlock's coat. "Can I get a better coat too, while we're buying clothes?" The jacket he’d pulled on was ill-fitting and ill-suited to the boy's tastes, bought in haste by military personnel so that Mycroft would have _something_ to wear. He tucked himself close to Sherlock's side again as the three of them swept down the stairs and out onto the street.

"I see no reason why not." Mycroft smiled up at Sherlock, who returned the smile quietly, unused to displaying his real emotions outwardly. As they walked down the street to scout for a cab, a small hand reached upward. Sherlock laced fingers with Mycroft and gave his hand a comforting squeeze.

John was smiling beside them the whole way. It was hard not to when both brothers were expressing such unusual signs of affection. They caught a ride and ended up at several shops John would have never have thought to take Mycroft, nor had the means to do so. He trailed after the Holmes brothers, who were surprisingly as single-minded about clothing as they were about deduction. Secretly, he came to conclude that they were both quite vain. In the end, however, they came away with a sizable wardrobe. 

Mycroft had insisted on changing at one of the stores, shucking out of the emergency garments and into some of the new items he'd selected after a bit of arguing with Sherlock. Mycroft's choice for the day was something of a cross between Sherlock's tastes and that of a normal boy: black jeans with a flattering shirt and matching jacket. Black and green trainers and a new wool coat in muted grey rounded out the outfit. 

They'd just exited onto the street, walking towards their next destination when a familiar face stumbled out of the dry cleaners just ahead of them.

"Greg!" John exclaimed, waving to the silver haired man who'd just glanced their way. When he turned fully, his brown eyes widened at seeing them there. Surprise and not a small amount of trepidation were apparent in the man's gaze.

"John, Sherlock," Greg greeted them anyway and let them catch up. He was glancing between both men and down to Mycroft as though he couldn't decide whether he should be worried or not. "What brings you out here? Something come up?" 

John only waved it off. "No, no, nothing like that…. Ah, we're…just out to do a bit of shopping." 

"Don't look so alarmed, Lestrade. I do turn up at places other than crime scenes and morgues." Mycroft's hand tightened in Sherlock's and Sherlock glanced down to his side, frowning at the expression on the boy's face. Mycroft had blushed slightly and was smiling shyly. "What?"

"Who is he?"

"Ah," John started, raised a finger, stopped, and looked between a quizzical-looking Lestrade and the boy. "Mycroft, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and Lestrade, this is…Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes." John smiled pleasantly. 

Greg stared blankly between them. When no one said anything, he glanced to Sherlock. Then down to Mycroft. "You're having me on." 

"Lestrade, I assure you, if I was going to pull a prank on you, it would be considerably more complicated," Sherlock replied. "This is my brother, Mycroft." The boy's blush had deepened as Greg had stared at him in disbelief. "...I take it from your stupefied expression that you'd met before."

"Uhh," Greg closed his mouth. "Yes? Only…only a few times, but…I remember you being a little…taller?" he said to Mycroft before his eyebrows dropped and furrowed. "How…?" Greg couldn't seem to keep his mouth closed. He'd noticed the resemblance by now. He did not seem to notice the color the boy's skin was turning, however. 

"It's rather complicated, but there was an accident. We didn't believe it was possible, either, until John and I went to pick him up," Sherlock commented. Mycroft was shifting again, fidgeting more than usual. Sherlock frowned at him again. "What is it, Mycroft?"

The boy turned his gaze down at his new trainers, refusing to answer. Sherlock let go of his hand and nudged his shoulder. The movement shook a peal of nervous giggling out of the boy.

Lestrade met John's eyes, both looking just as confused as the other before he turned back to the boy. Greg inclined his head, trying to see his face. "What's so funny?" the detective asked, leaning down a little lower. 

Red curls obstructed the boy's eyes, but small, pink lips were pulled into a half grin. Had it not been for those eyes and the very subtle shape of his face, Greg wouldn't have recognized him. 

Mycroft's smile caught, somewhere between embarrassed and flirtatious. "Y-you're really, um... _dishy_." When Greg's eyes widened as he processed what the boy had said, Mycroft ducked his head and hid behind Sherlock. Sherlock's own expression was incredulous, his gaze flickering between his brother and Lestrade as if he couldn't believe what had just transpired.

Beside them, a snort erupted from John, who tried to muffle it with his fist until he could hold back no long and finally burst into a fit of giggles. 

Lestrade looked at John and then straightened himself. He ran a hand through his hair, but the cool motion was offset by deep shade of red his face had turned. "Well, at least _someone_ thinks so," he said airily, which didn't help John's composure at all. Then he turned to the boy, or what could be seen of him behind Sherlock's coat. "I, ah, had no idea you felt that way, Mycroft," he said awkwardly. 

Mycroft peeked around Sherlock, scanning Greg with an embarrassed look on his face. He didn't miss Sherlock's mortified expression, the natural result of being confronted with the notion that one's sibling had a sex drive, and all the mental imagery that conjured. John wasn't helping matters. "...don't laugh at me," Mycroft murmured, tucking himself against Sherlock and trying to disappear.

"S-sorry," John coughed, trying to stop himself. "It's just…" he breathed, "I don't think any of us were expecting that." 

Lestrade looked nearly as embarrassed as Mycroft, but was putting on a brave face. "I, um…well." He shook himself a little as if trying to cast off the tension that had spread over all of them. "I'm very flattered," he finished with a beaming smile. 

"Sorry. Um." Mycroft refused to budge from his quest to become invisible by merging with Sherlock's coat, and Sherlock finally wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders.

"Mycroft, it's fine." Sherlock forced the words out; Mycroft wasn't paying enough attention to read the DI and the rest of them. "Everyone was just surprised. You weren't normally this... open," Sherlock finished lamely. He still didn't want to examine the fact that his brother was attracted to one of his work partners, especially now that said partner was a few decades older than Mycroft.

Mycroft finally perked up enough to take in Greg's smile and John's contrite expression. "...can we go?" he asked softly.

"Yeah," John said, rubbing his hands together just to give them something to do. "Greg, uhm, see you at work, then?" 

"Right," the DI said with a nod, and turned as they began to make their way down the sidewalk. He waved slowly, just standing there, unable to stop staring as they left. 

They walked silently until they were far out of earshot, and then some more just because no one wanted to be the first to speak.

Their next destination was all the more embarrassing for the encounter; Sherlock hadn't yet deleted the fact that Mycroft's first impulse upon being given unlimited access to knowledge was, typical of the stereotypes about teenage boys, to look up graphic sexual content. As uncomfortable as the topic made Sherlock in general, more so when his brother was added to the mix, Mycroft looked downcast enough that Sherlock found it difficult to blame him for much. He couldn't recall being so unfettered and impulsive when he was young, but Sherlock supposed he must have been.

"Computer next, then?" Mycroft showed the first signs of a smile, shyness slowly draining away, and Sherlock stroked a hand through the boy's hair. The detective glanced at John for support.

He was met with an encouraging nod and a smile. John looked like he thought Sherlock was doing just fine. 

They found an electronics store with only another short cab ride and John was suddenly feeling very thankful that he was not paying for Mycroft's supplies. For an independent shop in London, the place was huge. One side held software, the other side held desktops, hard drives, sound systems, surveillance equipment, laptops, and everything in between. John looked nervously to Sherlock the moment they walked in. 

Mycroft looked like he wanted to grow several more pairs of eyes, turning in place and trying to see everything at once. He didn't understand most of the jargon, much less what the equipment was supposed to do.

Sherlock managed to grab one of the clerks and isolate him for questioning. Between the two brothers, they narrowed down the number of choices, although Mycroft licked his lips and began greedily eying several more pieces of equipment in the store as soon as he was told what they did. Sherlock adamantly refused to purchase security cameras or movement detectors, regardless of how much Mycroft pouted or tried to sweet talk him. They left with a powerful laptop that had a mind-boggling price tag attached, a backpack case, and several accessories the boy insisted upon. 

Mycroft was practically vibrating with excitement when they exited the store. He couldn't have looked more pleased if he tried.

He looked almost _too_ excited, enough so that the look in his eyes was a little bit manic, and even a little unnerving. 

John kept glancing at Sherlock, not sure how exactly they were going to control this. He wasn't sure what trouble the boy could get himself into, but the more intense Mycroft became, the more he got the feeling that it was possible this had been a bad idea after all. 

They arrived back at Baker Street laden with packages, John carrying most. For the time being, he dumped them beside the sofa for easy access and then dropped into the armchair, exhausted. 

Mycroft and Sherlock promptly got into a row; Mycroft had wanted to immediately start using the computer, and Sherlock had informed him that he needed to set up and install everything first before it would function properly. Mycroft didn't have much knowledge about how such things worked, but even he knew enough to get suspicious when the operating system had finished installing and Sherlock began putting other software on the machine.

"You don't get to _spy_ on me!" Mycroft yelled, yanking the computer away from Sherlock and hitting keys to try to stop the installation.

"We got you the computer on the condition that you use it responsibly. I know you too well to merely take your word for it." Mycroft bristled and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The program goes on, or you go without."

Mycroft crossed his arms and glared bloody murder at Sherlock. It should have been cute, or obnoxious, but the younger Holmes' tantrum was frightening instead, eyes too sharp and clever and full of unspoken threats.

John tried to stay out of it as best he could. He retreated to the kitchen where he brewed a pot of tea and checked his phone…over and over again, just to look like he had something to do. If this escalated, he would soon fear going to sleep tonight, or letting Sherlock for that matter. Mycroft looked like he was about ready for murder. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was managing the boy's temper considerably well. Perhaps he had seen it before, or perhaps he simply was not intimidated by his brother. John found it funny that he could think of a child half his size 'intimidating'. 

Mycroft couldn't find a leverage point on Sherlock and finally relented, watching Sherlock make the last of his alterations with a sour look. Sherlock didn't doubt that it would be a temporary victory at best. As soon as Mycroft thought he was by himself, Sherlock knew he'd start trying to figure out a way around the monitor program.

"This isn't fair," Mycroft muttered as Sherlock handed the laptop over. He was having a hard time reconciling the younger brother he remembered with the man currently serving as a surrogate parent.

"Prove that you can be responsible, and I'll take it off."

Having sensed they were coming to a standoff, John decided to make an attempt at pacifying the situation with a few mugs of tea. He brought in three and set them on the coffee table, almost unnoticed by the glaring brothers until he spoke. 

"It's going to take time to catch up on everything you want to in this decade anyway," John said, trying to sound soothing. "And you know it would be best, and we would like it, if you came to us with any questions you have about things, too. We don't want to just leave you in the dark with a laptop and no one to talk to." 

"But there's stuff I _can't_ talk about. It was never a problem before. Mummy just had someone drop me off at the library and picked me up a few hours later."

"It wasn't a problem before until they figured out what you were looking up," Sherlock pointed out. Mycroft’s gaze settled on him and Sherlock stared back, making a poor attempt to hide his irritation. "They did, eventually. I'm merely operating on foreknowledge."

Fear flickered in Mycroft's eyes for a moment. The boy scanned over Sherlock's face, wondering just how _much_ he knew. Sherlock, for his part, was doing his best to be impassive and unreadable.

It was clear that John didn't know. He did a double take and stared at Sherlock just as curiously. So, whatever knowledge Sherlock possessed, it wasn't common knowledge. 

"It's…for your sake, too," John began, hesitantly sidestepping the battle of wills he was witnessing. "You can't communicate with just anyone when you're confined to a library. With this, you'll run into all sorts. Some would probably best be left alone."

"But they can't even do anything. I'm out of reach and too clever, anyways."

"You don't have enough experience yet to see how it can be dangerous. Don't be a brat." The brothers stared at each other, and Sherlock let the mask slip a little. Irritation was smoldering right under the surface, along with concern... and confirmation. Sherlock _knew_. Uncertain of what that meant for his future or how to fight back, Mycroft acquiesced again, dropping into a slouch. 

"Can I go now?" the boy asked, picking up the computer now that Sherlock was done with it. Sherlock nodded and Mycroft wasted no time in retreating to his brother's bedroom.

John watched his back until he disappeared through the kitchen and they heard the door shut. Blue eyes turned to Sherlock a moment later. 

"So….," John began as casually as he possibly could, "what was he looking up?" He looked somewhere between curious, suspicious, and like he knew it was probably better not to have asked at all. "50 Ways of Pranking Your Brother?" he added, hopefully. 

"John..." Sherlock looked distinctly uncomfortable, which was never a good sign. His gaze took on that familiar piercing look, putting John under the microscope and trying to determine how much to say. "When the two of us were much younger, Mycroft was considered the problem child. I don't know how much I can safely tell you without your attitude and behavior towards him changing drastically."

John's face lost any hope of humor. He frowned and dropped his gaze. That warning by itself sent him looking back through his memories of Mycroft, trying to find anything out of place, reevaluating the man he had known as Sherlock's elder brother. John's inspection came up empty but for only a few niggling feelings of unease. Sherlock was serious though, and he knew John. Sherlock could anticipate his reaction. A large part of him didn't want to know, knowing that if Sherlock was right and if his attitude changed while Mycroft was still only a kid and living with them that that could have negative consequences. But he couldn't abide by being left in the dark either, not when he sensed the subtle threads of danger. 

"How drastically?"

"My parents hired a private psychologist with the implicit understanding that there would be no records, and even after it looked like he was making progress continued to hold the threat over his head that they might have him locked up for the rest of his life. Our father, in particular, became afraid of him. I was fairly young at the time, but I remember the effect it had on Mycroft, particularly when our father died shortly thereafter and there was no longer a chance to fix that relationship." Sherlock frowned; he'd never given it much consideration before, for some reason, but a great many things made more sense upon reexamination. "He started withdrawing and becoming more conservative in order to appease our mother."

The furrow in John's brows only deepened. Not only did he feel a new and deep sense of remorse for the boy, or the man he had once been, but Sherlock's words revealed a few key facts about the Mycroft they were dealing with now. One, that if John's opinion of him changed, much like their father's, it could be harmful to the boy. And two, that whatever changes he had made to his behavior, with help of the psychologist or simply by reigning himself in for the sake of his family, this Mycroft had not begun yet. 

John shifted uncomfortably. "Do you think… If I knew, could I help him?" 

"As far as I'm aware, your background is in general medical practice, not psychology. I haven't yet determined how to go about solving this particular problem, if Mycroft is indeed stuck like this," Sherlock sighed. "The family therapist we used has passed in the intervening years. I might be able to track down someone who will agree to be discreet and not keep records, but it will take time."

John ran a hand over his face and gave an echoing sigh. "Alright. I'll leave it. For now. But if anything happens, then I'm going to ask you again and you're going to tell me because psychologist or no, whatever is going on with him, he's probably going to need people around who understand him. Which, right now, is just you." 

Sherlock looked almost as disheartened as John felt. He really hoped they could fix this. If they couldn't, then Mycroft was going to have to relive every hurdle he'd already faced in life. 

Sherlock was about to speak when his mobile rang. He dug it out and glanced at the screen, frowning at the ID that showed up. Stranger yet, he actually answered. "Hello. Yes, this is. ...how is this my problem? That's not my area of expertise." Sherlock listened intently for a few minutes, grey eyes clouding gradually as he thought. "Fine. When?"

A flicker of annoyance passed over Sherlock's features. "We will discuss this in greater detail when I arrive." He cut off the response of the speaker with the press of a button. "John, I'm afraid you're going to have to watch Mycroft for the rest of the night, at least. I've just been called in by his former coworkers."

John gave him a wide eyed look that said quite clearly what he thought of being left alone with an angry, and frightening for reasons unknown, little Holmes. "Right then. That's just peachy." He gave Sherlock a tight lipped smile, trying to get himself back into a proper mindset. John reminded himself that he'd once invaded Afghanistan, and he could do this. "I'm sure we'll be fine. Just fine. If I'm dead in the morning, Sherlock, I swear to god I will come back and haunt you."

Sherlock paused in mid-movement, and the hesitation spoke volumes. Sherlock realized he'd given away a key piece of information just as John read between the lines, body stiff with the new knowledge. Sherlock turned back to his flatmate with serious eyes. "He won't kill you, John."

"God I hope not, because that was supposed to be a joke." John didn't look very relieved. He sighed and slumped back in the chair. "Keep your mobile on. I'll call if anything happens." He gave Sherlock his best pacifying look. Mycroft was difficult, but John was easy to get along with. As long as he didn't allow himself to be duped or taken advantage of, Sherlock would just have to hope for the best. 

"I will. I'll be back as soon as I'm able." Sherlock gave John one last uncertain look and dashed out the door. A black car was waiting outside the flat complex for him, familiar but for the fact that Mycroft wouldn't be at the other end of the journey. 

John stood and watched out the window until it had gone around the corner. He sighed and decided to check on the source of this newfound apprehension. 

John didn't soften his footsteps down the hall, letting the boy know he was approaching until he stopped outside the door. He gave it a soft knock. "You alright in there?"

There was a rustling as a small body slid off the mattress and padded toward the door. Mycroft opened the wooden portal and gazed up at John. "...I guess. I heard Sherlock go down the stairs." His lower lip caught in his teeth. "...he's coming back, isn't he?"

John raised a brow. "Of course he is. Might not make it back tonight, but soon. Something came up with your work and they needed him. And you can call him whenever you want." John softened a little, understanding Mycroft was worried. "You didn't scare him away or anything."

"I just... don't have anyone left. I looked on the internet. I didn't really believe it, I guess." The cheerful demeanor, even the indignant anger from earlier, was gone. Mycroft looked like a kid on a hospital bench, having just been told that the parent they saw go into that ambulance was never coming back. "What am I going to do if he dies too?"

John's shoulders slumped. "Come here," he said, taking the boy by his shoulders and sitting down with him on Sherlock's bed. John looked into his eyes. "That's not going to happen for a very, very long time. He's not going to die, and he's not going to leave you. He made sure I knew just how much he cares about you, even if he's rubbish at showing it. I know he takes a lot of risks in his work, but believe me, he's a hard one to get rid of."

Mycroft didn't look so certain, but he nodded anyway. "I can tell he cares, but it's hard. It's almost like reading a stranger, because he almost is one. He's remembering all sorts of stuff that happened, but it _hasn't happened_ for me. He's completely different from what I remember, and I can tell he's having trouble looking at me and not seeing whoever it was I used to be. We don't know each other anymore, and... I don't know how he can think we're safe," Mycroft added, drifting into a completely different topic. "I just found out that Daddy was murdered _in our house_ , and Mummy might have been poisoned, and how can he not even have an escape plan in case someone comes to the flat?"

John frowned. Obviously Sherlock had never mentioned this to him. "He's never been suspicious about anyone coming to get him, not personally. Who would have done something like that to your parents?" It seemed that if Mycroft were looking for information on their family's past, John was not going to be a good resource. 

Mycroft's lips parted in surprise. "...the rest of the family. The more distant bits. Or maybe another competing group. Sherlock never told you about anything?" Mycroft frowned. He supposed it made some sense, given that his brother hadn't seemed to have pushed his relationship with John past a certain point, but for him to not even have gotten a _warning_... "That seems... mean."

"Well…we've never really dealt with your family. Other than you, that is." John considered. It was sort of just understood that Sherlock didn't have an extended family, or if he did, that he wasn’t at all interested in acknowledging their existence. John had never held that against him because… "I don't really talk to my family much either. Not that they're going to murder me, or anything. We've just never gotten on. Sherlock and I sort of just… collected a small group of friends instead." 

"Yeah, our family is weird. Was weird," Mycroft amended. "I'm sorry your family wasn't very good either." Mycroft didn't fidget or stare down at his hands and feet with normal childish awkwardness. His grey eyes had been fixed on John's face since they'd started the conversation.

It was a little unnerving, but in a way it reminded John of the old Mycroft. He'd learned to soften his gaze somewhere along the line, but the man had always been unnaturally still. Elegant, even. "That's alright. Old news for me. Anyway, I don't think this is something you have to worry about right now. You might sort it out with Sherlock later, and maybe he'll agree to take more precautions if they're still around, especially now that we have you to take care of. But I honestly can't say what's happened to them."

"Could we make a plan, just in case? I'd have to ask Sherlock what he knows about anyone that might still be around and dangerous, but we can plan for other things. Like what to do if a criminal comes into the flat, or there's an outbreak, or something. Lots of times, if you have a plan for one thing, it can be changed and used for other things later, so it's not silly and useless to make them."

"That sounds reasonable. So long as the plan _is_ reasonable," John concluded. And it was true, they had a child to protect now, even if he insisted he was just as capable as any adult. They should have some sort of safety plan to fall back on in case something happened. John sat back, making himself comfortable. "I'm certain Sherlock will have his own opinions when he gets back, but for now, you're the expert. Any ideas?"

Mycroft smiled, eyes sparkling with excitement as he pulled his new computer back onto his lap. This was one of his specialties, his chance to show off to the man his brother regarded so highly. "I've always got lots of ideas." He brought up a Google map of modern London, zooming in and marking their location with a point. "I haven't seen your room yet, but from this floor the best thing to do would be to stay away from the windows. The stairwell is narrow enough to be barricaded pretty easily, except we don't have a lot of furniture or extra wood to nail things shut, so we'd probably have to just put something in front of the door and sneak out the kitchen window onto the fire escape."

"If there was an outbreak, the worst thing to do would be to try to head to public transport. It'll be packed with other people trying to escape, a lot of them probably infected and infecting other people. If someone wanted to contain the spread, it'd be pretty simple to do something to the Underground - bomb it, fill it with poisonous gas, something, and that's if you _don't_ get infected. Same with a terrorist attack - they'd want to hit as many people as possible, so they'd target where everyone would automatically go. So we want to go where less people would try."

"We wouldn't want to go too close to any of the hospitals, either - they'll have infected people all over there, and maybe people who are panicking and fighting to raid their stores for supplies. If we were careful and cut through the parks here," Mycroft pointed. "And walked for a bit until we're away from the epicenter, then stole a car or something, we wouldn't hit clogged roads. It'd be easier to get away."

John could see where the movie had come into play in Mycroft's anxieties. "That sounds like a decent plan. Stay away from public places, find independent transport. In case of zombie or terrorist attack." He nodded along. Mycroft must have been thinking about this a lot since they'd watched the film. John briefly wondered how much of his work in the government had been inspired by zombie battle plans. 

"Supplies would have to be picked up in smaller towns. If there were an outbreak, the city would probably get put under quarantine pretty quickly, so we'd have to move fast to get out in time. No stopping for anything. Depending on how bad the disease is, I'd guess the government would kill everything in the quarantine zone if it spread too quickly and was too dangerous. They'd be too afraid of it getting out to delay for enough time to look for a cure and administer it, so... we don't want to get caught in the quarantine zone." Mycroft chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. "It'd be dangerous to go south. Too many people in general, and people would panic and try to take the ferries to France. It's warmer and got better farmland in the south, too, if stuff stays bad for too long, but that's also dangerous and obvious. It'll draw a lot of people. It'd be better to go north, up to Scotland. Someplace remote."

The hesitant smile that had been forming on John's lips disappeared. "Hold on… you think the government would trap everything it could in the city and then kill it? Human or not?" He was looking at the boy incredulously, even though Mycroft thought his assumption was sound. "No… no, granted, I've never been witness to a zombie apocalypse, but that's not how warfare works. Not with that many civilians in the way."

"How do you know? I don't think they'd do that much with terrorists, but with an epidemic..." Mycroft shrugged. "It's been done before, historically. Some places survived the Black Death by quarantining and burning whole houses when someone inside started showing symptoms. I don't think it's that much of a stretch to think the government might crunch a few numbers, determine the most failsafe way to save as many people as possible, and sacrifice a chunk of the populace if it meant saving more survivors and the rest of the country in the end."

John was looking at him as if he'd become infected himself. The doctor's eyes had widened, his breathing had gone shallow, and judging by the pulsing vein in his forehead, his heart rate had gone up. "That's horrible," he said quietly. John was remembering his time serving in the British army, and something became suddenly clear to him in a way that it had never fully before. 

He had served his time on the ground, with all the other grunts, just trying to keep everybody alive, get where they were going, and not bother the Afghani civilians in the process. They'd always known they weren't the ones making the big decisions in the war, that some cold blooded, high up there government officials were. They knew the war was shit, but there was always a disconnect between them and where their orders came from. Mycroft had been one of those people, maybe not in the war John had fought, but he had been pulling his strings up there somewhere. And now, here he was, confessing to John just how coldly he expected things to be run. 

John stared at him in shock. 

Uncertainty started filtering into Mycroft's expression as John stared at him, the silence growing increasingly uncomfortable. "...what's wrong? It's not nice to think about, but wouldn't you try to save as many people as you could? It... seems odd, but other things sometimes do too. Like..." Mycroft frowned, trying to find an appropriate analogy that John would understand. "...like amputations. It seems bizarre to tell someone that the best way to save their life is to chop a large bit of them off, but sometimes it's true. They're too sick and medication won't fix the infected limb anymore, and it'll just spread and kill the rest of them."

John shook his head. "To save society as a whole, then maybe, but…Jesus, not as a first response plan, not when thousands of lives _could_ be saved." John sighed and ran his hands over his face. "Look. I don't think this is very practical to debate now, okay? So let's just leave it." All the subtle signs John was giving off said he did not want to be having this conversation, that he did not agree with Mycroft, and that the subject unsettled him quite deeply. 

Mycroft visibly withdrew with a nod. His shoulders slumped and the spark of interest left his eyes, leaving a dull, melancholy grey. "I'm sorry, John. I won't talk about it anymore." The conversation was confirmation, to him, that John wasn't going to be receptive to unusual topics. 

John slumped in return. He hadn't meant to shut the boy down, but the way their conversation had been going was making him nervous. "What do you say we do something else? Maybe watch another movie? Or you can make burglar plans and write them out for Sherlock to look over later?" 

"Alright." The boy shifted in his seat, not quite certain what to do with his designated caretaker. John was giving out so many conflicting signals that Mycroft didn't know which one to pay attention to. "...are we ok? I wasn't trying to scare you, I promise."

"We're ok," John confirmed. The small smile he gave Mycroft wasn't forced. "I know you weren't." He picked himself up off the bed and indicated that Mycroft should follow him out into the sitting room. "C'mon. Sherlock keeps his room like a basement. Let's get you some light to work in and I'll make tea." 

Mycroft grabbed his laptop and followed John back out to the living room. He settled down on the couch while John bustled about in the kitchen. After a bit of scrounging around Sherlock's desk, Mycroft managed to procure a notebook and a few pens. He was busy scribbling when John returned with two steaming mugs. From what John could see, the page started out listing possible entry points for burglars, then devolved into boobytraps, trailing off into crude physics and mathematical calculations as Mycroft puzzled out how to defend each weak point.

John sat in the armchair and opened his own laptop, trying to enjoy a few moments of silence. He checked his email, sent a quick one to Sara at the surgery that he might be out for a few days until they worked out a schedule for Mycroft, paid a few bills, and browsed aimlessly. John really wasn't used to entertaining someone he couldn't take out to a pub, or anywhere adults usually frequented, but at least Mycroft seemed capable of keeping himself busy. 

A few hours passed quickly. Mycroft lost interest in his burglar traps and became side-tracked by the mathematics necessary to make some of them work, browsing several pages in succession and trying to puzzle out the calculus lessons shown on the sites. Pages of the notebook began to get filled with formulas and practice equations. Eventually Mycroft dropped the pen and slumped sideways. His expression was one that John was very familiar with, matching the detached, irritable look Sherlock got whenever he was at a loss for something to hold his interest and stimulate his mind.

John watched it all out of the corner of his eye in first fascination, and then trepidation. Just as he never learned to entertain Sherlock, he had little hopes of doing so for Mycroft. "Fancy a movie?" John asked, as it was the only thing he could think of. He supposed he could have asked about Mycroft's plans, but the boy would only have been able to explain the gist of them, not the intricacies of the physics involved. 

"Yeah. I need a break. The internet isn't being very useful for this. I think I'm going to have to get actual books." Mycroft shut the laptop cover with a click. "What sort of movies do you have?" Mycroft fully expected John to try to suggest something mild, something _boring_. What he really wanted was to stretch his legs and get some air, maybe go look at the city lights. The fact that London didn't sleep was somewhat of a novelty - the pristine night sky was traded for a biological clockwork mechanism that never stopped moving.

"Ah, let's see…" John reached for the remote and opened the telly's menu. "Anything on here really." There were quite a few. "So long as it doesn't bother you as much as the zombie one did," John added, killing any hopes of a better mood. He kept scrolling through, hoping something would catch Mycroft's attention. 

"That one looks alright." Mycroft stopped John on a general sci-fi flick entitled Equilibrium. It promised slick visuals and interesting fight scenes, if nothing else. "Is that one ok?" Mycroft waited for John to nod in agreement before he rose. "I'll be right back. I've gotta use the loo, then we can start." The boy disappeared through the kitchen, heading towards the bathroom. He entered Sherlock's room instead, grabbing one of the warm jumpers that had been bought for him earlier and pulling it on.

Mycroft snuck back through the kitchen with care, making certain that John wasn't going to enter the room looking for him or wanting to make popcorn. He slipped out onto the fire escape.

John remained none the wiser. He didn't hear a sound, and he didn't come looking. By all indications, he sat in his chair, waiting patiently for the boy to come back. 

Mycroft exhaled, watching the cold colour his breath and turn it to white mist. He giggled, taking stock of his bearings and descending the metal stairs to the ground. The cold was uncomfortable, even with the jumper, but he wasn't planning on being outside for very long. He pulled his hands into his sleeves to compensate for the lack of gloves.

The escape led to a back alleyway. Baker Street couldn't be considered a rough neighborhood by any stretch of the term, so the space was clean, if not well-lit. Even at this hour, Mycroft could hear the constant low rumble of automobile traffic. The crisp air carried a hint of wood smoke from a neighboring building's chimney.

It wasn't until he neared the end that something went wrong. The world went dark. Something fell over his eyes and ran into him from behind, knocking him half off his feet before quick hands with a grip as hard as iron caught him and shoved him forward. It lasted seconds, if that, until he was tumbling inside a car - no, a van. His hands had been bound, too quickly for him to struggle until it was over. The sound of a door slammed and footfalls rounded the vehicle, but before the man, whoever he was, got in the driver's seat, another pair of hands grabbed him and held him down. With them came a high, manic laugh. 

Mycroft had been too shocked to scream in the first two seconds of struggle. The daze was over now; he yelled in fear, kicking and struggling desperately against the bindings on his hands and the weight on his back. He felt chilled to the core, but it had nothing to do with the winter cold. Every warning lecture he'd had with his parents was running through Mycroft's head, along with the recent knowledge that his parents' caution hadn't saved them in the end. If this wasn't a hostage situation to get leverage over Sherlock, Mycroft was certain he was going to die.

Maybe even then.

He was flipped onto his back. Whoever was above him had him lying on the floor between the seats. The man caught Mycroft's kicking legs and trapped them beneath his own with his knees planted either side of Mycroft’s hips. Suddenly the bag over his head was yanked away and the world, dark though it was, came back into focus. A small face set with sharp teeth pulled into a grin and giant, beady black eyes that sparkled with delight, gazed down at him. 

"My, my," said the man, "don't you just look delectable?" 

Mycroft froze, his cry for help sticking in his throat and dying. He was bound and didn't have a chance in overpowering the man leering over him, even in a fair fight. As much as Mycroft liked horror movies, he wasn't enjoying the experience of the victim's side of the story.

Panic was making it difficult to think clearly, but one thought managed to filter through: this man didn't match any of the photos his parents had shown him. This wasn't an old enemy, but someone new. "...wh-who're you?" he finally squeaked out. 

The man's brows rose, but the look in his eyes didn't change. "You don't remember me, honey? I'm _wounded_. And I thought we had such great times together, too. You'd torture me….I'd blow your plans sky high…. It was a real special something we had." The man leaned down, his oily eyes searching Mycroft's face with an unsettling amount of excitement. "But just _look at you_ now! You really don't remember, do you?" Fingers, surprisingly soft, brushed down Mycroft's cheek. "That's why they've sent you home and ran to Sherlock, didn't they? 'Oh please, won't you fix big brother's mess for us?'" He giggled in delight. 

"I d-don't know what you're talking about." The man's intense stare was uncomfortable, and his stroking fingers made Mycroft want to escape, but there was nowhere to escape _to_. Mycroft stared back, unable to tear his eyes away from the two dark points that had him pinned like a specimen on a dissecting board. "I haven't tortured _anyone_." Not people, anyway. It was too risky, too dangerous for multiple reasons. "I don't know anything, just let me go!"

That only seemed to make the man even more delighted. "Oh no, no, no… None of that, now." The fingers petted through his hair in mimic of a caress. "My name is Jim Moriarty, and I won't be letting you go anytime soon. Sorryyy." The man shook his dark head in mock contrition. "How I wish you could see yourself like this," he whispered. "Just look at you. Whoever went and let you grow up should be shot."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting from this chapter onwards, Echoes will contain explicit sex scenes and the warning tags will begin to apply. -SilusLocke

Mycroft shivered under the touches. Jim Moriarty's gaze was more than a little hypnotic, like watching a viper sway and being uncertain of what might provoke it to bite, and when. Even more confusing were the thinly veiled compliments; half a dozen scenarios ran through Mycroft's head, most of them ending in his death, his body preserved to prevent him from growing up. "You're going to kill me, aren't you." Mycroft tried to hold his voice steady, but the careful blankness was ruined by a tremor.

A crack of laughter erupted from Jim. "No, no, no," he hushed. "I'll be honest, the thought crossed my mind, as did returning all the little favors you gave me when you had me in your grasp." There was no mistaking his meaning. Jim looked unmarred, physically, but there were many ways to torture a man without leaving a scratch. "But nooooo," his voice had a lilting, cascading quality to it. His grin grew wider. "I think I'd much rather keep you for myself."

Mycroft blinked, still not believing that Jim didn't mean to harm him. Other terrible ideas crossed his mind. "What do you mean, 'keep me for yourself'? I... I don't know anything right now. I'd be useful as a bargaining chip with Sherlock, but I don't know what I used to do." With the way his kidnapper had eyed him and run hands over his face, Mycroft had an inkling that Jim's interest had less to do with his current skills and more to do with a sense of victory and aesthetics - a prized catch to display and do with as he would.

The gleam in Jim's eyes told him he wasn't very far off the mark. The light from street lamps flashing by glinted off them, eerily illuminating his face in regular intervals. Jim leaned down. His voice deepened and softened at the same time. "Is that so?" he asked, gaze drifting down Mycroft's body. "I might be able to make you remember yet. Or at least try." Jim quirked a slender brow as his fingers fiddled with the collar of the boy's thick jumper, pulling it down to reveal more of the pale flesh of his throat. 

"Hey," a naturally deep voice sounded from the driver's seat. "Not in the back of the car, _please_!" 

Jim rolled his eyes and glared at the second man, breaking eye contact with Mycroft. " _Shut up_ , Seb," he said acidly, but the smile on his lips didn't fade. 

The break in Jim's gaze gave Mycroft a moment to breathe, albeit shakily. The boy knew that his life had just veered onto and unexpected path, full of brambles and likely with a messy, quick end. One that might not be too far off. He wasn't quite able to swallow down the fear, nor stop the trembling in his jaw after he tried setting it in a defiant line. He might not be able to prevent anything from happening, but he could at least try to put up a fight. "Seb? Make him stop. Please?"

Curious blue eyes glanced back at him, upside down, in the rear view mirror and then disappeared until the light passed over Seb's face again. The man held little expression besides vague interest at the plea, even though he'd voiced his annoyance at Jim. 

Jim, on the other hand, laughed with glee. " _Yes_ , Seb. Do make me stop," he said breathily, already knowing how hopeless Mycroft's request was. Seb only rolled his eyes and went back to driving while Jim laughed. The man, who was beginning to sound more than a little mad, settled himself down beside Mycroft. He kept their legs tangled together so that if Mycroft tried to kick out, it would be difficult. Jim casually rested his head on one hand and went back to fingering the dip in the boy's collar. "Hush now. I'm not going to hurt you, not after I've gone to such trouble catching you," he said, but it was impossible to tell whether he wasn't lying with that smile of his, far too menacing to signal good intentions. 

Mycroft's hands and arms were beginning to ache, bound and pinned underneath him as they were. With Jim's hands brushing over his skin, there was no way Jim couldn't feel him shaking. "I'm s-sorry I did something t-to you. When I was bigger. I d-don't even 'member," he chattered, locked back into his staring match with his captor. The fingertips were beginning to tickle. "Please st-top touching m-me?"

Jim's gaze went from intense to _fascinated_. His fingers did still, but his hand rested like a weight over Mycroft's chest. Jim only leaned closer. His eyes scanned the boy's face, the wicked smile morphing seamlessly into innocent curiosity. "Amazing," he said, staring into Mycroft's wide eyes, "I can't tell whether you're putting on an act or not." And something about that seemed to delight Jim. 

"...act about wh-what?" Having Jim lean closer was like having a nightmare creature close enough to touch, all manic dark eyes and sharp teeth. The monster's maw had closed for the moment out of curiosity, but that was no guarantee that its hunger wouldn't make him a snack later on. Mycroft barely dared to breathe for fear that something would change Jim's mood again, dissipating his amusement and with it the thin strands of safety.

"This," Jim said, touching his thumb to Mycroft's pouting lip. "All this blubbering. You're terrified of me. I've heard you used to be quite the actor, and with a face like this," Jim stroked the boy's cheek, ignoring his request not to be touched. "Playing innocent shouldn't be much of a stretch, now should it?" Jim smiled knowingly. "Come now, Mycroft. If I were to untie your hands, what would you do to me?" 

Mycroft's lip quivered, but his eyes grew sharp, weighing the possible consequences of the options available to him. Scared as he was, pity wasn't moving Jim. It was possible that his kidnapper didn't feel empathy. Perhaps bravado would make a difference.

The boy jerked and tried to snap at Jim's hand, catching nothing but air between his teeth. "I'd... I'd rip your throat out," Mycroft said, doing his best to try to sound convincing even if he felt helpless and lost.

Jim burst out laughing. He rocked back with it, nearly falling against the bolts of the seat beside him. "Well, that sounds a little more like the Mycroft I know, I'll give you that," trying to compose himself. "But it works better if you really mean it," he whispered conspiratorially. Jim's eyes flashed up to the man driving. "Seb, forget the warehouse. Take us home." 

Blue eyes and furrowed brows caught the mirror again, but Jim only held the man's gaze. An unsaid conversation seemed to be happening between them. Possibly 'home' meant more than one place. "Alright," Seb conceded with a hint of surprise in his voice. The van swayed as they turned. 

Mycroft felt the tight bands constricting his chest loosen just a little. He'd apparently passed some sort of test; Jim had been amused, enough that his original intentions sounded like they'd just been changed. It remained to be seen whether this was a positive development. "...who says I didn't mean it?" Mycroft asked, somewhat hurt by the laughter even though Jim's sense of entertainment was keeping him afloat.

Jim's smile turned back on him. "You'd have to get over this little bout of anxiety you've developed first," he said sweetly. "But I wouldn't mind watching you try," he added, and although it sounded derisive, something in Jim's eyes said that he wasn't kidding. Somehow, Mycroft interested him. Possibly in a way that he hadn't when they'd known one another previously. 

"Let me loose and maybe I will." Mycroft wanted to squirm but forced himself to hold still. Struggling in front of a predator was never a good idea. "...what are you going to do with me once we get 'home'?" he asked.

Jim smirked and licked his lips. It was little more than a flash of pink tongue and then it was gone, but the motion couldn't be missed. "I think I like you better this way," Jim drawled, ignoring the question. "Something tells me you _would_ love to try and rip out my throat, if you truly had the opportunity. You seem…unrestrained, missing all of that pomp and circumstance." His eyes were looking through Mycroft. "If you truly have 'regressed', I imagine you must have adopted all that later, no?" 

It took a second for Mycroft to get what Jim was asking. "...you mean restrained, posh behavior? I actually _gave in_ at some point?" The boy wasn't quite able to keep his disdain from seeping into his expression. "My parents kept trying to get me to toe certain lines, but no, I don't really go in for much of that. Aside from some of the clothing," Mycroft admitted. Jim was still looking at him like he was the main course of a meal.

"Then I suppose you could say all I want to do…" Jim's sharp teeth flashed in the light as he whispered, "Is get to know you better." He leaned in, eyelids drifting lower to give Mycroft what was surely a false sense of security, but stopped a hair's breadth away from the boy's lips. Jim's breath brushed against his skin, and in that small moment of distraction, cool fingertips edged over his hip and underneath his warm jumper. 

Mycroft jumped and inhaled sharply, unable to suppress his reaction. No one had ever invaded his space so thoroughly before, with or without the added layer of sexual interest. The man's fingertips felt cold against his heated skin, and with that grinning mouth hovering so close, Mycroft's mind immediately jumped back to memories of the previous evening - forbidden videos and pictures snuck in a few moments of privacy. Colour tinged his cheeks.

Jim's grin only widened. He didn't pull away. "Ah, you get it now." His voice was a soft chuckle. He could make it ooze out of his mouth like honey. His lips brushed Mycroft's when he inclined his head ever so slightly. His fingers were warming quickly with the transference of heat where they massaged Mycroft's small hip bone. "When you'd been missing in action so long and I saw you arrive at your brother's flat like this, I couldn't resist having a closer look… I've been watching. And what a surprise you've turned out to be. This interests you, doesn't it?" Jim's lips pressed softly against the corner of his mouth. 

Mycroft's hormones had kicked into high gear, drowning out much of his common sense. He looked up at his kidnapper and noticed, now that his survival instincts were being partially overridden, that Jim had remarkably delicate features. Even if a sharklike grin was set in that frame. Soft lips brushed across his and Mycroft looked back at Jim in confusion, aimless lust replacing some of his fear and leaving his pupils blown wide. His breathing went quick and shallow.

"That's right," Jim whispered before he kissed Mycroft fully. His lips were surprisingly soft, although not as soft as the boy's. His whole frame, small for a man but still much larger than Mycroft's, melted and turned into him. Jim shifted his hip between Mycroft's thighs and licked his tongue over the boy's lips before he pulled away just enough to speak again. "Oh yes, you are definitely more fun like this." 

Mycroft looked like a deer caught in the headlights; he could see everything, see Jim's intentions, but was having difficulty reacting. Partly because he'd never had the chance before to experience anything like this. Jim still had their legs tangled together, keeping him from kicking out. Mycroft felt a firm heat against one thigh and his brain lurched even further sideways into unknown territory. A voice in the back of his head whispered that maybe he _wasn't_ a freak, unlovable, unattractive. "...fun?" Mycroft's voice was tremulous and barely audible over the hum of the van's engine.

"Mmhm," Jim breathed. "You've always had a formidable mind, but you'd let yourself become dull…boring…predictable. I dare say you'd passed into a ripe old age before you'd ever finished university." His black eyes opened to stare into Mycroft's and the motion of the vehicle taking a turn rocked Jim against him, creating a burst of pressure and friction. "Such a _waste_." 

Mycroft frame tensed at the stimulus, making his arms pull against the bindings and reminding the boy that he was bound. Where he was. Who was above him. Conflicting emotions played out on his face as one part of him found the idea even more intriguing while the rest blanched in fear. Kidnappers didn't look at their prey with lust. Not unless there was a messy death at the end of the line. Mycroft had watched enough movies and read enough True Crime novels to know that much. "...s-stop. Please?" Mycroft swallowed and stared up at Jim, knowing that he didn't have any leverage at all to persuade the man to stop.

Miraculously, Jim did. His body sagged against Mycroft, enjoying one last bit of pressure before he pulled back and gave the boy some air. He even untangled their legs just enough so that their hips weren't pressed together. He waited, letting Mycroft breathe. "Nervous?" Jim asked, his voice too soft, too sweet. 

Mycroft nodded, breathing deeply and trying to stave off the sudden sense of vertigo. Somehow, he'd escaped for the moment. Again. The boy watched Jim, wary and wondering if this was all a game to him. "I... don't..." He took another deep breath and tried again. "I've... never done anything, and I don't know you, and I don't know if you're going to kill me or hurt me. And my arms hurt," he added, just in case the complaint would convince Jim to untie him. It was true enough, at any rate.

Jim smiled. The van was slowing. He bent and ran his fingers down the boy’s arm beneath his back, circling around the bruised skin and the bindings. "Then if you want to stay alive," Jim said without any hint of malice, "you'll cooperate enough so that when I let you go, _if_ I let you go, you won't remember this place. Yes?" His gaze leveled with Mycroft as Seb parked and they came to a stall. They could hear the other man shift in his seat to look at them. Jim lifted the woolen bag they'd thrown over the boy's head, indicating his intent to blind Mycroft again. Presumably only so that he could not see their surroundings until they were inside. 

Mycroft's gaze flickered between the two men and the bag. He understood completely. "Yes, sir." He went still, if not relaxed. Nothing could ease the tension at this point, but trying to bolt was out of the question. Blinded, in an unknown location, and with two men intent on keeping him captive, any attempt to rebel at this point might just break Jim's good mood and put him in danger of physical harm. "I understand."

The last thing he saw was Jim's bright smile before the world was engulfed in darkness again. Jim's hand found his arms and urged him to kneel before the door of the van opened. Another, larger, set of hands helped him down until his feet hit concrete. Jim's own shoes clacked against the ground as he followed. The man had dressed well, for a kidnapping job. A dark suit and tie had blended with the shadows in the van too much to be completely visible, but he was unmistakably particular with his clothing. 

Jim walked beside him as they moved, even though it was Seb's tight grip on his upper arm that led him. They went through a gate that shook with the sound of water as they passed. It must have rained here recently. Up stone steps. Through what sounded like a heavy door. Then up another, long flight of stairs and another heavy door. 

Jim's fingers found his and the man twined them together, like he just wanted to hold Mycroft's hand. The other man, Seb, must have done something or given him a look because Jim gave a dark laugh in response. 

And then they stopped. The door closed and bolted behind them, and Jim was removing the woolen bag over Mycroft's head. The man was grinning down at him. "Welcome home, darling." 

The room they stood in was some kind of foyer. If so, they must have had a rather unusual floor plan, with this being the second floor. Everything was white except for an ornate black chandelier that hung high over their heads and filled the room with a soft, warm light. High windows rose on either side of the hall, but they were blacked out with heavy shades. Wherever they were, it would have cost a fortune to keep in London. 

Mycroft had listened intently as they had walked, but had been unable to discern anything useful. His clever eyes darted about the room, taking in the high quality of his surroundings, the particular design, the high contrast. Jim obviously had exacting tastes where aesthetics were concerned, and the money to indulge. Not only was the amount of empty space unheard of in the city, but everything was exquisitely crafted and of very fine materials.

"Expensive taste," Mycroft commented. His tone was soft, but not derogatory or dismissive. His head tilted up to get a good view of the chandelier. "But empty. This isn't where you do things. It's just a space." Or maybe appearances were deceiving; it was so difficult to tell. Modern equipment was a great deal smaller and thinner than Mycroft was used to.

"Observant," Jim said and his smile grew. Mycroft had pleased him. "Yes, this is just a room, and I have many to spare," he turned with a hand in the air, showing off their surroundings, "but I would be very sorry to see this one go should it ever come to the attention of the authorities." His dark eyes flashed in warning, and then his expression melted into something soft. Invitingly, he held out his hand to the boy. "Come, let me show you where you'll stay." 

Mycroft watched Jim cautiously, wary of both the dark looks and friendly warmth. Both sides were dangerous, albeit in different ways. Thus far, it had paid to keep Jim pleased - indulging him a bit more probably wouldn't hurt. Tentatively, a small hand settled in Jim's open palm. Mycroft managed not to jump when the man's fingers closed around him. "How long are you having me stay?" It was a dangerous question, but Mycroft was desperate for more information.

"As long as I want you here." Jim pulled him to his side and opened one of the tall, white doors in the back of the room. It led into another world. Breaking entirely from the atmosphere of the last, this room was entirely bohemian. Not a spot of white lay in view anywhere. In its place were deep reds and purples, oranges, blues and mottled colors everywhere, in blankets spread over the sitting area and even across the walls. Indian rugs lay underfoot, placed beneath dark, heavy furniture. Candles and decorative items littered the space. It was meant to be a sitting room of sorts, or perhaps even a bedroom if it had contained a bed. A gathering place designed for comfort rather than business, or a place to entertain. 

A lone computer sat at one of the small footstools. Jim picked it up, unplugged it, and handed it to Seb, who was waiting at the door. For a moment, Seb loomed over him. The difference in their height and build was striking. Then Jim sat down upon one of the sofas and patted the spot next to him, looking expectantly at Mycroft. 

Mycroft had watched the exchange with Seb with a sinking heart. Jim wasn't going to be careless - he was entirely too clever for that. This was going to actually be a challenge. Mycroft should have been thrilled, but all he could feel was a supreme sense of irony that after watching so many horror movies and wishing, independently, that more people weren't so moronic, he'd fallen into a mishmash of both.

Mycroft tried to keep Seb and Jim both in sight; Jim was the more dangerous of the two, but Seb would be the one doing the enforcing. The boy took a seat beside Moriarty, mind racing and trying to predict what was going to happen next.

Jim smiled pleasantly and crossed his legs, causing him to lean in ever so slightly toward Mycroft. "Now," Jim began, resting an arm on the sofa behind the boy, "When I said I wanted to get to know you better, before, I meant it. _I_ think there's something quite different about you now. And I will say this, I have been aware of you Holmes boys for some time…quite some time…yet I've never seen you like this before." Jim's presence was nearly suffocating like this, but his words weren't as threatening as his body language. "Aaaand then, just because I was curious, I monitored the activity in your brother's wireless network over your ISP service. _That_ was interesting." 

Mycroft still wasn't up to speed on all of the new technological terminology, but between Jim's body language and tone, the boy figured out what Jim meant. Ingrained shame colored his cheeks and made him fold his arms protectively. As much as Doctor Watson had told him things had changed, Mycroft still didn't quite believe it. The reaction from his parents upon the merest suspicion that he was gay had been burned starkly into the boy's memory, still fresh even though it was technically decades behind him. "...was just curious," he mumbled.

"Ah ah ah…don't shy away now," Jim purred. His palm found Mycroft's cheek and brought the boy's attention back to him. His fingers stroked cherry curls before they drew back. "I don't mind. Not at all. I won't judge you. Because you see, that's all very convenient for me." His words, like his touches, were sickly sweet. "I like you Mycroft." Jim's full lips stretched. "I like you a lot." 

"Why? You don't even know who I am." It was too odd, too wrong - Jim was treating him like a beautiful toy, or maybe an intelligent pet. The boy inched back a little and peered up at his captor. "Not really. You know whoever it was I used to be, I guess. And my brother. And I'm not a pet," he added, eyebrows drawing together as he gave Jim a resentful look. As much as he wanted to keep in the man's good graces for the moment, he hated condescension.

Jim didn't seem perturbed. "I was, at first, simply going to repay you for some of the more…unpleasant experiences you'd inflicted on me. Although I dare say what I had mind was much more pleasurable in comparison." Jim's finger caught the collar of his shirt again and pulled it down, "You may not wish to be a pet, but you are still such a pretty thing…. Either way, it's going to happen. But I'm curious about you, too… because you're right, I _hadn't_ been able to observe you when you were this young before. It would have been at least five or six years before I discovered your family. Through your dear brother, I might add." 

Mycroft's temper was beginning to creep up on his sense of self-preservation. His eyes hardened, a ghost of his older self set into a child's face. He jerked away from Jim's touch. "You can be as curious as you want, but I'm not going to be your pet. I'm here as your prisoner, or here as your guest, but I'm not one more mindless trinket to stick in a room and be a toy or piece of artwork. I _won't_." The boy straightened and put on a brave face, trying not to think about the 'unpleasant experiences' Jim had referred to.

"Then you're here as my prisoner," Jim said coolly, "and if you want to be anything else, you will have to convince me otherwise." His gaze dropped, resting casually somewhere around the boy's middle. "I do not have equals, Mycroft. Not you, not your brother, not anyone. Now lie back." Jim pressed his fingertips to Mycroft's chest, points of sharp nails digging through the fabric of his jumper and urging him down. 

Mycroft pulled back, slipping out of the jumper as he did so, leaving Jim with a handful of fabric as he jumped to his feet and backed away. There was no way he was getting out of the door with Seb standing guard, but he wasn't keen on being pinned down again. There was no guarantee Jim would listen to anything he had to say and little he could do to fight back in that position. "Maybe I'm not your equal _yet_ , but I'm not just going to let you do whatever you want to me."

Mycroft started rethinking his statement as soon as Jim rose, eyes dilating in fear as he backed away and tried to put some distance between them. 

Jim advanced slowly. His steps were sure, yet carefully measured. "Is that what you would like to be? You grew up last time with quite the control complex. I suspected it had something to do with the threat of your family and the burden of little Sherlock…. But what a dull life you'd made of it." Jim had backed him into the wall, trapped between an armchair and a table. He stopped just too close for comfort. "A 'minor' government official," Jim mocked sweetly, "chained down by queen and country. How could you _possibly_ match me?"

"That's not who I am now. You have no idea what _I_ can do, or will do." Jim had him well and truly boxed in; the only way to escape was to go through him, and Mycroft couldn't even see around him well enough to determine if Seb was keeping watch and ready to intervene. The boy looked up into Jim's intense eyes and uncomfortable, mocking smile. "I bet I could learn."

Jim bent low and as he scanned Mycroft's face, something in the room changed. It came from Jim, specifically, but the subtle sense of oppression shifted curiously. "Could you now?" Jim asked softly. " _Would_ you? You had plenty of incentive to learn the life you chose before. When your parents _died_ , who would have taken care of poor, little Sherlock without you? But what incentive do you have to learn anything else? Besides the threat of _me_ , hm?"

"Maybe, now that Sherlock can take care of himself, I can do what I _want_ to do. Not what I'm _expected_ to do. You're plenty smart, but I'm betting you don't know as much about me as you think. Even if you just knew who I used to be." Mycroft smirked, and only part of the expression was bravado. He'd been very, _very_ careful thus far. Sherlock had known, somehow, but as far as Mycroft was aware he was the only one who'd caught on. "I don't think you know what I like, even if you looked at my internet searches."

Jim's eyes turned inquisitive. If darkness had been there before, a curious light had flared to life behind them now. The man latched onto his words like a vice. He crouched to meet Mycroft's gaze. His arms reached out to grasp the table and chair beside them, trapping the boy where he was. Jim either believed him, or he _wanted_ to. That was clear. And maybe, if Moriarty had suffered some kind of pain at Mycroft's hands in the past, just maybe, he could believe it. 

"And just what has big brother Mycroft been keeping secret all this time…?" Jim whispered. 

"You told me that you'd suffered 'unpleasant experiences' from me. I'm guessing that I helped do government interrogations, from bits and pieces that I've overheard." Mycroft waited for the flicker of acknowledgement in Jim's eyes. The boy's frame trembled from stress; he'd never admitted this aloud, done so much to keep it buried and silent and hidden away from view. The words didn't want to leave his mouth. "Maybe it was just coincidence that it was part of the job I ended up in, but I doubt it."

Mycroft took a deep breath, voice dying down to a whisper. Some voice at the back of his mind kept whispering at him to stop, that once he spoke the words everything would be over - the world would end. "I've always liked it. I catch things to play with. People are too big, too complicated; I'd get in too much trouble, so I just play in different ways."

Jim sat absolutely still, but his eyes were alight with what he was hearing. Ever so slowly a smile was stretching across his features. "Oh," he whispered, reverently, "Oh… you hid that _well_. I _knew_ you liked it too much, you stayed too long, you worked with me personally, ohhh…" Jim laughed gleefully as though it was just dawning on him, "But you never did get what you really wanted, did you? I didn't take well to torture, not for someone like you, and you had to give up on me in the end. And that's why, why I didn't _see_ , see what was inside you…" The malice and mockery were gone from Jim's gaze, replaced with this new epiphany. Forgetting himself, Jim's hands lifted to cup Mycroft's face, burying themselves in his hair as he stared at the boy in wonderment. "I knew you had the mind for it," Jim whispered, "but you were ever so cleverly boring." 

Mycroft's expression had grown curious, enough that he ignored the way Jim's hands had reached out to catch hold of him. "I gave up on you?" he asked. He'd not seen any visible marks on Jim, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. "You resisted too well? How? What did I try?" He would have had decades to learn tricks in secret, and access to all sorts of government techniques, both admitted and secret. "Nothing with a knife, or you'd have scars."

And Jim said he'd stayed to torture him _personally_. Perhaps without another witness in the room. What had their relationship been, that he'd want to single him out?

Jim's smile widened with Mycroft's curiosity. "I don't feel pain when I don't want to," he said softly. "You could have killed me, and dealt with the repercussions later, or you could have maimed me or otherwise left me handicapped, but since I wasn't giving you the information you wanted through torture, your best bet was to let me go and…continue on my way." Jim laughed softly. "You did have a laundry list of methods. But eventually it came down to a battle of wills…. And in the end, we just talked. I was curious about your brother, and in exchange for shared memories, I opened up to you." Jim leaned in slightly. "If I hadn't learned that neat little trick, I say you would have had me," he whispered conspiratorially.. 

A small, prideful smile lit up Mycroft's face. Jim's comment had amounted to a hat tip, a concession from one skilled master to another. Even if he no longer remembered the techniques or had any memories of what he'd done, that was worth something. "Maybe I'll have you again?" he asked cheekily, flashing Jim a grin that was more teasing than anything else. Jim was too interesting to kill or truly take out of commission. "I've never heard of such a trick."

The look of elation Jim had about him didn't falter. "That's because I invented it. Or really, just turned the teachings of Buddhist meditation to a more practical use. You _are_ interesting, aren't you?" The hunger hadn't left Jim's gaze, but it had morphed into something less frightful. His hands dropped from Mycroft's hair to his shoulders and then brushed slowly down his arms. Either Jim was a strangely tactile person, or he was only so with Mycroft. Finally, the man stood. He still loomed over Mycroft, but it couldn't be helped. "I've changed my mind," he said. "You may be my guest. For now." 

Movement came from the corner of the room. Sebastian was rolling his eyes. 

“Of course I'm interesting." Jim had stroked Mycroft's ego a few times now, and piqued the boy's own interest. The effect it had on his demeanor was noticeable. Mycroft was still cautious towards Jim, but it was more the way one regarded a possible new playmate than a man who might murder you at any given moment on a whim. His head tilted as he watched Jim straighten up. "What will that mean, that I'm your guest?"

"No idea, never had one before!" Jim exclaimed. "But we can start with dinner." He snapped his fingers at Seb. The man gave a quick and halfhearted salute before he turned and left the room. "This does mean, of course, that you won't be leaving nor contacting the outside world until I say so. Are we clear?"  
"Yeah, we're clear." Mycroft hadn't expected otherwise. With the sort of games Jim was playing, he didn't want to attract attention. Especially from Sherlock, given that his brother now worked with the police to bring criminals in. "Dinner sounds good. I'm starving." Mycroft glanced at the empty doorway. "...he's not cooking, is he? He doesn't look like he can cook."

"Good lord no," Jim laughed, moving back to the sitting area and taking a seat on the small sofa. He reclined casually, respectfully giving Mycroft half a room of space. "So what would you like to know about the world? What you couldn't ask Sherlock or his live-in doctor. You couldn't be more than…" Jim cocked his head, inspecting Mycroft with a hint of that hungry gaze. "11 or 12…so that would make 1985 the last year you remember?" 

"I just turned 12, so yeah. It was 1985... before." Mycroft drew closer, choosing an armchair near the sofa Jim was occupying. "There'd just been another Cold War scare, but... I'm guessing that's done now? Nobody seems to be talking about the USSR. I just started learning how to use computers and the internet, but I didn't have a lot of time and I couldn't look up some stuff with my brother putting spy programs on the computers and Doctor Watson looking over my shoulder." Mycroft's feet didn't touch the ground, so after a moment he pulled his legs up and sat cross-legged, resting his chin on his wrists.

Jim nodded slowly. He wore an eternally pleasant expression now that they were on better terms. Although, it didn't exactly make him look pleasant at all. "You were on the right track, I'd say. The steady rise in technology has enabled us all to take massive leaps in our chosen professions. All this," Jim waved a hand about, indicating the room, "was accomplished through anonymous work, and the net has been the new medium of the black market. The USSR fell, China is still a communist state, but also the fastest growing at present. The Western world hit a financial recession and never wholly recovered. And on top of it all, I've built an empire of criminals. And then grew bored of it." 

Mycroft tilted his head, regarding Jim for a moment before a smile touched his lips. "...because all the people are boring. You finished the game and there's nothing left to do, because you've beaten all the interesting players." Mycroft wondered if that had been why Moriarty had crossed paths with him and his brother. "It doesn't matter that you've proven that you're the best after the boredom settles in, because it _hurts_ and everything becomes pointless."

The man's full lips spread into a real smile. "Yesss," he said and closed his eyes for a moment, looking satisfied. "You understand. There is little pleasure in playing with idiots. And I don't get an 'audience' as your brother so desires, doing tricks for the public." Jim sighed, but just then Seb returned. He brought with him Chinese takeout in the most nondescript boxes ever produced. "Ah, good. Sebastian, come in." Jim motioned him in and they spread everything over the coffee table in the center of the room. 

Mycroft stared at Seb now that he had the opportunity to really look at the man. His facial scars had been visible in the car mirror, but Mycroft hadn't had a chance to see much more. Seb towered over the both of them, well-built and with the disciplined movements that suggested Special Forces training. The hands that set down the takeout boxes were calloused, but not in the ways Mycroft had normally seen. He didn't have the tell-tale signs on his hands and nose that were giveaways for common thugs and enforcers.

"...you're a gunman, right?" Mycroft guessed. "Jim got you from the army?"

Hard blue eyes glanced to him, but their gaze was softer. He'd surprised the man. "'Got me'?" Seb raised one brow. 

Jim grinned fiercely, digging into a plate of noodles. "He thinks you're my pet. Just go with it." He was obviously enjoying this. 

"Yes, he 'got me' from the army. Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service. Good to meet you, Mr. Holmes," Seb said evenly. He seemed to have a very dry sense of humor. 

Mycroft beamed and rocked back and forth in his seat, pleased at the confirmation and the man's response. "Good to meet you, Colonel Sebastian Moran, now that I no longer have a blinder over my head." Seb gave him an odd look, which only prompted a giggle out of the boy. 

"You have interesting scars for a gunman." Mycroft was silent for a moment, calculating the shape and width of the stripes he could see. "Doesn't look like you got jumped by someone with a knife. More like a large animal. A cat? A lion or tiger or something like that." The boy reached for his own plate and began dishing up food from the containers.

The man's gaze slid toward him again, intrigued for the second time. "A tiger. Used to hunt them and other heavy game up in the Himalayas. Not that the army ever officially knew about that." He gave the boy a wink. 

Jim watched the exchange with delight. "You two have something in common," he said offhandedly, but both could tell his attention was undivided. 

Sebastian's eyes met the boy's. A hint of a smile played at his lips. "Those tigers never knew what was coming." It sounded like Seb wasn't referring only to the animals. 

Mycroft lit up like he was finally getting to meet his childhood hero. One that was actually interacting with him instead of brushing him aside. "Can you tell me about them?" he asked, voice high-pitched with excitement. "I've never gotten anything bigger that a mid-sized dog. My parents didn't even let me go deer hunting. I had to figure out how to catch things myself whenever we were out in the countryside." Mycroft had managed to find a fork, but now his attention was split between the food and the soldier who'd suddenly become _very interesting_.

Across from them, Jim's eyes _lit up_. Something about watching them was pleasing him immensely. 

Seb grinned. "There's traditional hunting, and that's what you do when you're not alone. It's alright if you can get a good group of guys together. Then there's real hunting, hunting _my_ way. And you only do that when you know you're gonna be alone and nobody's gonna find the scene for a long time to come. And lastly, the most dangerous game, the best kind to hunt the 'real' way, is man. And that's the fun part." He fell into this role with the boy easily. He seemed to relax, opening up as though he were telling a tale among friendly conspirators. 

"I've never had a chance to try any of that. It's been too complicated to try to get something bigger on my own and be sure that nobody notices." Mycroft ate as they talked. For someone so small, he was certainly tucking away an alarming amount of food. "Um... can..." The boy's gaze flickered between Jim and Seb, uncertain whose permission he needed to ask. "...would you teach me some things? Sometime? Please? I don't know that I'll ever find someone else I can ask about this."

Seb looked to Jim, but the colonel was grinning with the same question repeated in his eyes. "What do you think Jim, can I take our guest out hunting?" 

Jim stirred his noodles thoughtfully before cool, black eyes lifted to land on Mycroft. "So long as said guest is willing to stay for that long, I don't see why not." His voice was like soft velvet. It even seemed to affect Sebastian, whose chest swelled minutely as though the affirmation were a stroke of praise. 

Jim's quiet tone calmed Mycroft somewhat, but didn't dampen his enthusiasm. "Yeah, I'll stay." The boy smiled at both of them, then ducked his head shyly. "Thank you, Jim. And Sebastian." He polished off the rest of his noodles, still flush with happiness at the thought of being allowed to go out with the Colonel and getting a chance to learn what he wanted. Perhaps being Jim's guest wouldn't be so bad.

Jim's lips curled. 

Sebastian rolled his eyes as though he was following the man's train of thought, but he stood and dutifully cleared away the plates and paper bags anyway when they were finished. 

Even though Mycroft hadn't eaten a proper dinner, it was getting very late. Sebastian nodded his head to the boy, acknowledging their newfound truce. "Mycroft. I'll see you in the morning," he said before taking his leave. 

Grey eyes followed Seb as he disappeared through the doorway. The thought that had been lingering at the back of his mind finally drifted forward: Jim hadn't actually shown him where he'd be staying. The boy's wariness suddenly returned as his gaze settled on Jim. Mycroft wasn't entirely certain the pair of criminals had a guest room. "...am I sleeping on the couch?"

Jim's smile widened. "I don't normally make accommodations for visitors," he said, leaning his elbows on his knees and fixing the boy with his gaze. "I would have had you sleep here, yes, but I think a proper guest should be shown more courtesy than that, don't you?" He shook his head slowly, putting on a frown. 

Mycroft gave Jim a nervous smile, not knowing what response was the correct answer. "...oh, I'm not all that picky. Sherlock made me sleep on the sofa at his flat." Until he got scared and convinced his brother to share the bed, but Jim had no way of knowing that.

Jim rose and tutted softly. "No, no, that won't do. Not here. You should have a decent bed." He wasn't trying to hide his smirk any longer as he stretched casually and cocked his head. "You'll have to stay with me for the night."

Mycroft's smile froze, uncertainty making it brittle. He knew that Jim was interested in more than his mind. Mycroft supposed he must be more attractive than he'd thought, as even John Watson had given him compliments. Jim himself was fine of features, so attraction wasn't the problem. Mycroft simply had little practical idea of what one actually _did_ with another person, much less another male. It would have been petrifying even in normal circumstances, but Jim was also quite a bit older, stronger, and looked at him like a wolf might regard a lamb. His smile and sweet words did nothing to assuade Mycroft's nervousness. "...w-with you?"

"Mhmm." Jim strode around the table and held out his arm, waiting for the boy to rise. "Don't look so frightened, I won't hurt you." His gaze softened almost imperceptibly. "As long as we are in a truce, no harm will come to you. Now please, come with me." 

"If I tell you not to do something, will you stop?" Mycroft asked as he slid to his feet. Even he was smart enough to know that a promise not to make one hurt wasn't quite the same as a promise of safety. All he had was Jim's word, either way. 

Jim's eyes narrowed - not angry, but calculating. "Only if you really, _really_ mean it," he answered softly. That answer in itself indicated that Mycroft's suspicions were correct, that Jim was going to try something. But it also hinted that he would do so slowly, and that there was some leeway in this. Of course, Mycroft had yet to determine whether Jim was one to hold to his word or not, or whether he would seek to bend the terms of their agreement to suit himself. 

Unfortunately, Mycroft didn't have many options. No matter where he tried to sleep, Jim would have access to the area. Even if he managed to figure out where Seb's room was and convinced the Colonel to let him sleep in the room, he was under no illusions that the man would protect him from Jim. Not after what happened in the car. He'd hand Mycroft over as soon as Jim asked for him. 

"...ok," Mycroft whispered, finally placing his hand in Jim's. 

Jim's fingers wrapped around his, and his hand was warm. The man smiled and led him out of the room, this time through the other side. They took another staircase to a third floor. These were definitely Jim's rooms. They were pitch black until Jim flicked a switch by the door, but the light that came on was so low it barely illuminated the whole room. A bathroom and sink could only just be seen at the opposite end. On one side was a couch and a low glass table. On the other, a bed. It once would have been as decorative as the rooms below, but Jim had trashed the place with computer equipment. Everywhere. There were two laptops and one desktop perched precariously on the table. The tower was fitted snuggly beneath it with a tangle of cords. Stacks of hard drives littered empty spaces. Boxes of cameras, surveillance equipment, even a few server towers were strewn about the floor. One of the laptops and an external drive had even made their way onto the bed.

This was obviously where he holed up to work. 

Mycroft took in the mess with wide eyes, recognizing some of the bits and pieces from his trip to the computer store. Clearly he was going to have to learn more about computer hardware and software. The boy had other questions he wanted to ask, but all of them died on his tongue as he finished his examination of the room and turned back to Jim, finding that his dark eyes had been inspecting him just as closely. Mycroft licked his lips.

Jim broke their gaze with a knowing smile. He turned to the closets, unfastening his tie and removing his jacket. "You'll have to ask if you want to use anything in here," he said. "You can try, but you won't get very far without the passwords." He toed off his shoes and was unbuttoning his cuffs when he turned to see Mycroft still standing rooted to the spot just inside the door. His eyes were round, watching Jim. And Jim made sure of it when he shrugged the white shirt off his shoulders and stretched to hang it in the closet with the rest. 

Mycroft's mind went in two different directions again. One part was still aware of what Jim was saying and was doing its best to keep himself wary, but the other part had gotten thoroughly distracted by the scene unfolding in front of him. Mycroft's eyes followed the ripple of muscle as Jim shrugged out of his shirt, exposing a pale expanse of skin. Jim's trousers were well tailored and flattering, enough that the boy's imagination easily filled in the gaps while Jim hung up his clothing. His eyes had already darkened when Jim turned back towards him. "But you'll let me use them? The computers?"

Jim nodded slowly as he approached the boy. "Yes. If you would truly like to continue staying here, even if only so long as to join Seb on a hunting expedition, you'll know whom you shouldn't contact." He sat at the foot of the bed, just in front of Mycroft, and pulled off his socks. He had to bend to do it, the expanse of his back alive with shadows that dipped between the muscle. When he righted himself, his hands went to the slim belt that wrapped around his waist, the last to go. 

Mycroft stood transfixed and his breathing became shallow. A few snuck videos and photographs on the computer couldn't compare to this. There was an added intensity with the fact that this wasn't a recorded, untouchable fantasy on a screen; this was a live person, right in front of him. Mycroft watched Jim's dexterous fingers undo his belt and pull the narrow band of leather from each belt loop, unable to tear his gaze away. Some of his fear was forgotten out of sheer curiosity, wondering whether his imagination and the forbidden bits of media matched up with reality.

Jim knew he was putting himself on display. No one could have been so casual in their undressing with a boy like Mycroft standing less than a meter away without being unaware of his presence. But Jim was. He took his time, but seemed perfectly at ease and unaware of the effect what he was doing was having on Mycroft. 

The belt made a swift, zipping sound as he pulled it free of the last loops and dropped it to the floor. Deftly, he unbuttoned his flies and a slice of black fabric was visible underneath before he pulled the trousers down his hips. He kicked them off and they pooled on the floor beside the discarded belt, leaving Jim clad in nothing more than fitted shorts. The material looked soft, but it was snug enough to reveal the hard definition of his thighs and much more. 

A wash of hormones silenced the voice of caution at the back of Mycroft's mind. He'd known since he was young that he was more interested in boys, and realized around the same time that the people around him had considered this wrong and unnatural. His interest had only grown in recent years, frustrated by the fact that he had to keep it hidden. Having a tempting body only a few feet away, nearly naked, was more than a little overwhelming. The boy blushed, suddenly having flashbacks to the journey in the van - legs tangled together, warm and firm body holding him down, soft lips pressed to the corners of his mouth.

Finally, Jim looked up at him. The man's pupils seemed huge when in fact they were only indistinguishable from his irises. If his body was alluring, his eyes were hypnotizing. With a hand outstretched to Mycroft's cheek, he guided the boy closer, so close he was standing between Jim's knees. "I know how frustrating it is to hide," he said and with those words in Jim's mouth, the moment became surreal. Jim was offering an olive branch, but he wasn't speaking of the same problem Mycroft had. At least, he didn't seem to be. It wouldn't have made sense if he were. Not while living in today's world if it were truly that different from Mycroft's. Not living with a man like Sebastian, who was as devoted to Jim as he was attractive. And not when Jim shut out the world and lived anonymously, a criminal. His other hand came up to join the first, brushing along Mycroft's cheek. "But if you're strong, you learn to survive however you can." 

Mycroft found that he couldn't look away. Didn't _want_ to look away. The fingertips that gently stroked along the edges of the boy's face held him as firmly in place as an iron grip. Mycroft gazed back, grey irises narrowed to a thin band, his attention flickering between Jim's unusually dark eyes and the curve of his lips as he spoke. "You've survived by hiding, too?" he whispered.

"Absolutely," Jim whispered. Then those dark eyes were closing and the hands at his head drew him down just as Jim leaned up and those lips were pressing against his. They stayed that way for a moment, chastely pressed together, before Jim moved. He parted his lips and brushed them across the boy's ever so softly. With his hands falling down Mycroft's back, he urged him forward and into Jim's embrace. 

Mycroft stumbled forward, all awkward limbs and shyness. Jim's mouth had sent an electric jolt through him that left his skin tingling all over. After a moment of confusion, the boy shifted until he was straddling Jim's lap, rather than standing between the man's knees. The kiss was broken for a second as the height difference between them changed once again, leaving Mycroft looking up at Jim. Small hands rested on Jim's shoulders.

Jim was panting in small breaths. On closer inspection, his pupils really had blown that large. "You are amazing," he said softly before leaning in to recapture the boy's lips. His kiss was more fervent this time. Jim's tongue licked across his lips, asking for entry without words. His hands grasped Mycroft's arse and pulled their hips together firmly. Jim was hardening beneath him quickly. 

Mycroft whimpered, eyes fluttering closed at the wetness at his mouth, the heat radiating off Jim's skin. Heat that was pooling at the insistent hardness pressing against him. The boy looked dazed when he finally reopened his eyes. Jim's tongue stroked across his lips again and they parted with a gasp, letting him in.

Jim's tongue moved against his slowly. Every motion he made was deliberate. In this way, he led Mycroft through the kiss, which became a real kiss very quickly, and after only a few awkward moments, Mycroft caught on. Jim's full lips smiled against his when they parted for a moment. His dark eyes were half shut, but he never lost a second's worth of focus on the boy in his arms. Everything else in the world around them fell away. When he kissed Mycroft again, his hands stroked the boy's back, up and down, from the nape of his neck to the bottom of his arse. He slipped his fingertips under Mycroft's shirt, massaging over the incredibly soft skin, slowly trailing down his lower back. 

Everything was new and strange, but not unpleasant. Imagination didn't quite match up to how things _really_ felt, and Mycroft had never even kissed anyone the simple way before - much less with _tongue_. Jim wasn't quite doing what he'd expected, either; Mycroft had had fears that it would be a worse version of the van, all overpowering strength and bindings and a complete lack of choice. Jim was being respectful of his anxiety and lack of experience and was taking things slowly.

He shivered as Jim's hands finally touched bare skin underneath his shirt. A question lit up his eyes and passed between the two of them, unspoken. Mycroft began to explore, fingertips tracing the edges of Jim's jawline and testing the softness of dark locks of hair.

Jim groaned softly. He responded in kind with gentle massages against Mycroft's back and leaned ever so slightly into the touches the boy gave him. It was all subtle signs of encouragement, saying with a stroke of his hand and the flutter of his eyelids and the tilt of his head into the boy's smaller hands that he was happy to let Mycroft explore, that Jim enjoyed the attention. 

Jim knew that he was the first person Mycroft had ever been with, and it looked like he was willing, _more than willing_ , to indulge his curiosities. The strip tease had been the first sign, meant not only to awaken the boy's hormones, but also to intrigue his mind, presenting him for the first time with a real, live human body. 

Mycroft was still painfully shy, but slowly growing more confident as Jim _let him_ look and touch, let him test without immediately pressuring him for more and quickly escalating. Mycroft was recording everything: the quick flutter of Jim's pulse under his fingertips, the way the sound of his breathing and voice had changed, the flush of color and warmth that trailed from his face and neck partway down his chest. The man's skin was pale, unmarked, and beautiful, tempting enough that Mycroft dared to press a kiss to Jim's collarbone when he tilted his head.

His explorations drifted lower, fingertips examining the curves and dips of Jim's stomach and waist, avoiding any attempt to touch below Jim's waistband. Curiosity was burning Mycroft up inside, but it felt... dangerous. Like a trap that, once triggered, he'd be caught in forever.

Jim's eyes were smiling at him as though the man could read his mind. He took one of the boy's hands and pressed it more firmly against his chest, saying in no uncertain terms that Mycroft could touch, and do so however he wanted to. Then Jim's hands lifted the shirt over his head, leaving the boy bare from shoulders to navel. His eyes raked hungrily over the newly exposed skin and Jim's lips parted like he wasn't sure where he wanted to taste first. When he dipped his head, it was to the top of the boy's small shoulder, mouthing along his collar bone, and down his sternum. 

Jim shifted. Needing more access, he lifted Mycroft's hips and leaned them back so that they were lying side by side on the bed. 

Vertigo hit the boy as soon as Jim's warm mouth began drifting over his skin, tasting and teasing wherever tickled his fancy. Mycroft was ghostly pale, but for a scattering of freckles across his shoulders and back - memoires of summers spent outdoors in the English countryside. Jim was leaning over him but not pressing down, not smothering; there was enough room for Mycroft to move if he really wanted to. 

Jim's tongue swiped across his skin, leaving a damp stripe of rapidly cooling skin, and Mycroft shivered. His curiosity finally won out and his gaze drifted lower to the black fabric that was the last remaining barrier. Small fingers touched Jim's waistband, then carefully slid across the surface. Even with his pants still on, there wasn't much left to the imagination. Mycroft could easily feel the hard length of muscle underneath, hot beneath his palm.

It sent a rumbling growl from Jim's throat. His hips rocked slowly into Mycroft's hand and goosebumps trailed over the man's arms. Jim's mouth found his again, eager tongue showing just how appreciative of the touch he was. Jim's fingers rested over his, pressing Mycroft's hand more firmly against him while Jim breathed deeply. His free hand wound itself into Mycroft's hair. The sounds escaping Jim's mouth said clearly just how much he approved of Mycroft's curiosity. 

Jim shifted again until he was half bent over the boy, holding his weight on one elbow. His hip brushed the front of Mycroft's trousers before Jim's hand rubbed deliberately up the inside of his thigh and over the same spot. Through layers of fabric, he could feel the boy respond to his touch just as his own body was responding to Mycroft's. The length of him was smaller by far, but still unmistakable. 

Mycroft's breath caught and his hips canted up against Jim's hand without any conscious thought. There wasn't any logic to this - everything was instinct and feeling, and it _felt good_. Mycroft made a hungry sound of his own and met Jim's tongue, invading Jim's mouth in a moment of boldness. The older man kept stroking his hand in teasing circles and it was driving him mad, bleeding out his fear and every sentient thought in his head. 

That was surely Jim's intention, making Mycroft lose his mind so that his body would follow. Even if Jim was showing more and more interest in that mind the more Mycroft revealed to him. Perhaps Jim didn't make that much distinction between pleasure of the body and pleasure of the mind. 

One was certainly giving way to the other, however, when Jim's hands deftly undid Mycroft's trousers and pulled them slowly down his hips. There was little resistance to it at all. With a few tugs, Jim could have probably pulled them off without even trying to undo them, the boy's hips were so narrow. 

Cool air hit Mycroft's skin and brought him slightly back to reality. Jim had made quick work of his trousers and shoes, leaving only his socks and a utilitarian grey pants. Pants that were already under some strain. Mycroft watched Jim's dark eyes eat up the sight and shivered. He wasn't used to being the center of this kind of attention, this _amount_ of focus. The fact that Jim's mind was just as sharp and clever as his only made it that much more intense.

Jim's eyes darted up to his own for a second. The man was going to do something, and whatever it was, he was checking Mycroft, letting the boy know with just a look. Jim pulled him higher on the bed before he sank lower. The sharp brush of stubble ran down Mycroft’s chest as Jim mouthed along his skin, following the line dividing his ribcage down to his belly button while his hands trailed after down the boy's sides. He stopped when his fingertips met the edge of his waistband and Jim's chin hovered just above. With lips parted and head bent, eyes huge and shining up at Mycroft, Jim looked like something inhuman, but captivating just the same. His gaze dropped and a pink tongue swiped across his lips as he took in pale hip bones, the freckles more sparse here than they were around Mycroft's torso. Jim bent and, with a breath of hot air first, mouthed over the boy's erection through the cotton of his pants. 

Mycroft jerked, not away, but up against the touch. This was far different from touching himself. Jim's dark, inhuman eyes only enhanced it, fear of the unknown turning magnetic. One hand scrabbled for a handhold in the blankets beside him, the other tangling in dark locks of hair. Jim mouthed him again, the friction provoking a moan out of the boy. Jim glanced up again and met Mycroft's gaze, watching as Mycroft trembled and licked his lips. "...please?" The word was barely more than a whisper.

Jim's eyes darkened and his lips spread wide. White teeth flashed for a split second before he bent again. This time, he pulled the fabric down the boy's hips. Jim's fingers followed it over the curve of his arse, lingering and massaging their way down and to the back of his thighs until the fabric was gone completely, tossed to the floor with the rest of his clothes. Jim's tongue found the boy's hairless shaft first. He licked up one side and then the other before teasingly swirling it around the base and watching it harden to fullness before him. Even still, Mycroft was only just developing and Jim would have no trouble fitting him into his mouth completely. So he did. And he sucked, hard. 

Mycroft saw stars. All the breath left his lungs; he must have cried out, but he didn't hear it beyond the sound of his own heartbeat filling his ears. Nerve endings that had never had to put up with extreme stimuli were being overwhelmed by the new, intense sensations. Heat and wetness and suction and friction combined until Mycroft couldn't pay attention to any one thing, simply sinking into the waves of pleasure they summoned. His hips bucked and he felt hands grab him and press him back down. Jim sucked hard again and the boy's whole body trembled underneath his hands and mouth.

Jim groaned low in his throat and sucked and licked in slow strokes. He didn't need his hands for help - his mouth engulfed the boy whole. They caressed the curve of his thighs instead, and the dip in his groin where the muscle was so soft it was like silk to touch. 

In this one moment, there was no hint of the boy who'd been afraid of Jim's touch. Mycroft had gone from obstinate and distrustful to all but melting in his hands. Jim must have been incredibly pleased with himself. 

He stroked his thumb lower while he worked, massaging over his balls and then pressing just below. 

Mycroft's eyes flew open at the sensation. It wasn't _bad_ \- quite the opposite - but it wasn't something he'd felt before, or even imagined was there. The boy glanced down and whimpered at the sight that greeted him. Just beyond the mussed black tangles of hair and delicate eyebrows, Mycroft could see Jim swallowing him whole. The older man appeared to be enjoying himself, black eyes bright with pleasure and more than a bit of smug satisfaction.

When Jim pulled free, his mouth was replaced with a shock of cool air. Even his hot breath, hovering over Mycroft's erection, cooled quickly after each exhale. Jim's thumb didn't stop rubbing, provoking the intense sensation, but without his mouth it was an incredible tease. He had the boy on edge, and he knew it. He was grinning devilishly at Mycroft, taking in the way his chest rose and fell in panting breaths, the way his fingers curled in Jim's hair, trying to encourage the man to move again. The way the boy's other hand fisted in the sheets and, most of all, the way Mycroft looked desperately down at Jim. 

"Would you say you still don't want this?" Jim asked curiously. As though he didn't already know. As though he hadn't been driving Mycroft mad only seconds ago. 

Desperate was the right word. Mycroft writhed against the fingers pressing on his perineum, tugging insistently on Jim's hair. A frustrated noise escaped his throat when the older man still refused to move. He just kept stroking and smiling that toothy, predatory grin, but Mycroft was too far gone to find it frightening anymore. If Jim was a demon, he wasn't a demon currently set on killing him - although torture was looking like a very real possibility. "Why did you stop?"

Jim laughed, a deep and throaty sound, but it was a real laugh. He broke contact for a moment to reach across the table beside the bed. He came back with a bottle of clear liquid and spread some over his fingers, smiling pleasantly all the while. When he went back to massaging Mycroft his fingers were slick with it, sliding easily over his skin in long strokes. They edged lower than they did before. 

He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's lips. "This is going to seem strange," he whispered, "but don't worry. You'll like it."

Mycroft returned the kiss andrelaxed up until the point that one finger started circling his entrance. Even knowing from the few bits of glimpsed adult media and veiled conversational references that sex between two men often involved this sort of thing, his body tensed automatically. Jim didn't push things any further, just rubbing against tight skin and muscle, trying to get his body to accept that he wasn't a threat. Mycroft gave Jim an uncertain look, earning himself another kiss. "Are you s-sure? This just seems... weird..."

"I'm quite sure." Jim still held that knowing gleam in his eye. "Your body is well equipped to handle it, even find the experience incredibly pleasurable. There's a spot inside you, a natural part of the male anatomy," Jim whispered as his finger pressed firmly against the ring of muscle. "That, when stroked, will blow your _mind_." He pressed farther, slowly, ever so slowly breaching the muscle while his dark eyes fixed themselves to Mycroft's. 

Mycroft held his breath and tried not to squirm against the odd sensation. It felt _wrong_ , muscles burning as they were stretched and tried to clamp down against intrusion. He held Jim's gaze, concentrating on the man's features while he tried to ignore the discomfort. "It feels weird. Like it kinda hurts. I don't know..." The finger pressed deeper and it still didn't feel any better. Mycroft's eyebrows drew together in a frown.

Jim moved slowly, but it was still tight around that ring of muscle no matter how deep he got, but then he was far enough to angle his wrist, crook his finger slightly, and _press_. He seemed to know exactly where it was, and exactly how to do it. Jim's eyes lit up as he watched the change in Mycroft's expression. "That's it." 

The boy's jaw had dropped open in a silent cry as Jim found what he was looking for. His grey eyes refocused on Jim. "... _oh_ ," he breathed. A lot of things suddenly made a lot more sense. "That's... uhn-" Jim had stroked a fingertip over the spot again and it was enough to steal Mycroft's words away. The desperate edge had returned to the boy's face.

Jim kissed him. It was rough this time. He pressed the boy’s head back into the soft mattress and let the weight of his torso press him down. When Jim pulled away, giving Mycroft some air, he drew back down his body again. Still stroking gently with his finger, he closed his mouth over the boy's cock again, creating doubly intense sensations from both points of contact. 

The pleasure of Jim's mouth and tongue on him was more than enough to distract Mycroft from any distress he felt from penetration. He was overwhelmed with sensation again, clawing at his surroundings for something to anchor himself against. Eventually both of Mycroft's hands latched onto Jim's shoulders, holding on tight as his small frame shivered and arched against the older man.

When Jim added a second finger, it required a small amount of alteration. The burn was noticeable again until Jim angled his fingers to adjust and Mycroft's body eased into it. He was going so slowly that every touch was a hot, maddeningly drawn out tease. The muscles in his shoulders tensed while he held the boy down so that he could work without Mycroft bucking into him. The shift of his own hips against the bed, however, was a reminder that Jim, despite appearances, was not solely focused on Mycroft's pleasure. 

Mycroft was past the point of worry, at least for the moment. What he'd seen in videos had seemed impossible, and yet his body seemed able to take Jim's fingers without too much difficulty. The discomfort was subsiding as his muscles relaxed and stretched. Jim brushed against his prostate every so often, the jolt of pleasure making a counterpoint against the slide of mouth and fingers. Mycroft bit back a moan as one more digit slipped in. His mind had already skipped ahead, predicting where Jim was going with this.

When Jim pulled his fingers free and their eyes met, he saw the understanding in Mycroft's gaze. The man's mouth quirked in a half grin. He sat up leisurely, gazing down at the boy with heavy lidded eyes. Hooking his fingers under his shorts, Jim pulled them down and off, letting Mycroft see him for the first time. The boy had felt him, he knew approximately how big Jim was, but it was quite different to see the size of a grown man, fully erect. 

Mycroft's eyes widened and he swallowed visibly. A flicker of fear had returned, prompted by intimidation and a remembered concern. "W-wait. What about... y'know. AIDS. Are you... alright?" Bungled as his inquiry was, the disease had been one of his more pressing secret fears, all the more so for the intense media buzz and shame surrounding it that had been, to him, only two days ago. Just like the disappearance of immediate nuclear threat, it was difficult to let indoctrinated anxiety go.

The barest flicker of confusion flashed across Jim's features before he caught on. "1985," he nodded absently, "I assure you that I am in perfect health, as are you. No AIDS virus, no diseases, nothing, and neither of us has any chance of getting pregnant." Jim leaned down beside him, stroking a hand through his hair soothingly. "But if it would make you feel better, I can wear a condom." 

Mycroft considered this for a moment before he bit his lower lip and nodded. He was worried enough about how things would fit and whether it would hurt without adding paranoia about diseases to the list. "Yeah, it'd make me feel better. Is... that ok?" Jim didn't seem upset by the request, but Mycroft had heard plenty of older boys complain that sex didn't feel the same with a condom on.

"It's fine," Jim laughed softly. More than likely, he was just happy to have Mycroft where he wanted him. It was strange how different Jim was now that he was submitting to, and reciprocating, his desires. From the brief exchanges and posturing between them, it was doubtful that Jim was ever this lenient with Sebastian. And Sebastian was the only other person with whom Mycroft had witnessed Jim interact. Even when they had first met, Jim had been perfectly ready to take Mycroft against his will. But then Mycroft had become interesting. And though Jim hadn't backed off, he seemed to have changed his mind about certain things. 

Jim leaned over to the table again, this time retrieving a small package that he tore with his teeth and then slid over himself. He reached down to take Mycroft's hand and poured a glob of the liquid into it. With his own covering Mycroft's, he wrapped the boy's hand around his length, coating it with the slick fluid. 

Perhaps it was meant to be reassuring, giving Mycroft a feeling of agency, that he had some say in the decision to move forward. Perhaps it was a show of dominance and power. Mycroft didn't feel any less intimidated running his hand along the sheathed cock and slicking it with lubricant. He still didn't know how it was going to fit. 

The boy released him and Jim maneuvered between his legs, positioning them both. Mycroft bit at his lower lip again and watched Jim inch closer. "...go slow, ok?"

Jim only glanced upward to meet Mycroft's eyes. His own were dark with lust and he didn't look very concerned with Mycroft's fears in that moment, but he did as the boy asked, if only by necessity. Jim spread him as much as possible and then _pushed_ slowly, using one hand to guide himself in. His teeth clenched and his lips parted in pleasure. Mycroft was _tight_. Jim couldn't have breached him any faster if he had wanted to. 

Mycroft cried out and squirmed in discomfort. Even with preparation, it still hurt. Mycroft felt like he was being slowly, painstakingly split in two. Jim looked particularly inhuman, teeth bared, focused entirely on the sight of himself disappearing into the boy. His free hand gripped Mycroft's hip, trying to hold him still.

Jim stopped halfway. He groaned and bent his head into Mycroft's shoulder, just breathing and letting the boy breathe too. They were each experiencing very different sensations, yet Jim seemed nearly as overwhelmed as Mycroft. When he lifted his head, he brought his hands to the sides of the boy's face, stroking down his neck as though trying to soothe the pain. 

"Shh," Jim said, "It'll get better." 

"I don't think you fit." Mycroft wound his arms around Jim's neck, seeking comfort from the only source available. The fact that Jim had paused and started to soothe him was mildly reassuring. His breathing was still coming in quick pants, ghosting over Jim's skin. "Does it always hurt like this?"

"Yes, at first," Jim said softly. "But not every time, not when you're used to it." Tentatively, watching Mycroft's face, he pulled back and gave a shallow thrust in again. He slid deeper that time. He gasped softly when Mycroft winced, his fingertips still stroking the boy's temples. "You're beautiful like this," Jim whispered, incongruously. 

Mycroft glanced up at Jim through his lashes, a tell-tale dampness rimming his eyes. His erection had wilted noticeably from the discomfort. He gritted his teeth as Jim thrust once more. The man's words gave him something else to concentrate on, at least partially. "Why? People keep saying that, but I don't feel like it."

"That's too bad," Jim said, wiping his thumb against the corner of the boy's eye. "You could use that to your advantage if you wanted to." He thrust again, easier that time, small gasps punctuating his words. Someone like Jim might have been susceptible to that kind of manipulation, but Jim was clever. If Mycroft tried, Jim might find ways to turn the tables on him. 

As the boy’s muscles finally became exhausted and relaxed, the burning sensation gradually receded. Jim's thrusts became more frequent, moving a little deeper each time until he was finally buried to the hilt. There was a pause as they both adjusted again. Mycroft took a steadying breath.

"That's better," Jim whispered. He reached down and palmed the boy's cock as he thrust again. He could build a rhythm now, steady and deep. His eyes clenched shut as he moved. He let his weight sink into the body below him. He buried his nose in the boy's neck, mouthing at the delicate skin beneath his jaw. Jim's stubble tickled his throat, just as Mycroft's curls tickled Jim's brow. When he could move enough, Jim lifted the boy's hips, angling them together to hit that sweet spot. 

Mycroft gasped and quickly hardened again. He seemed to particularly enjoy the attention Jim was paying to his neck - teeth and tongue coaxed more helpless sounds of pleasure from him and caused his body to tighten around Jim's cock. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Jim's neck and clung to him, far more enthusiastic now that he was past the pain.

Jim groaned. He was becoming more vocal, a deeper harmony to counter Mycroft's voice, but perfectly in rhythm. The boy's legs wrapped around his waist tightly, and Jim bent over him, pushing him down firmly with every thrust. His mouth captured Mycroft's, and his free hand tangled in the boy's hair almost too roughly. He broke their kiss with a gasp and rested his forehead to Mycroft's temple, stroking the smaller length in his hand with every thrust as black eyes stared into grey. 

Mycroft did not know what he was doing to Jim, it seemed. There had never been anything between them before. Nothing but Sherlock. But then the boy, no longer a man and, in a strange turn of events, no longer who Jim had known him to be, had turned up on his brother's doorstep and caught the criminal's undivided attention. Jim's attention would have been a dangerous thing had his attraction not outweighed it. 

Mycroft didn't mind the rough fingers in his hair. Well and truly caught in the net Jim had woven, the boy was full of the tremulous passion of the innocent and naive. Much as he hadn't had many options, he'd still _chosen_ this, opted not to use Jim's promise to stop. Fear had turned to curiosity, then happiness at finding something of a pair of kindred spirits, and now had kindled into something else entirely.

The combined pleasure finally tipped Mycroft over the edge. He arched and cried out in a dry climax, his gaze still locked with Jim.

Jim gasped as he felt Mycroft spasm against him. His eyes screwed shut and then opened again, wide. Several more thrusts of Jim panting with so much pleasure it looked like he was in agony, of Jim's fist twisted in his hair, of Jim's body pinning him down so hard it hurt, and then Jim was coming. His mouth fell open in a silent cry, eyes unfocused and body suddenly still until the last of it washed through him and his shoulders sagged. He gasped for air and the hand in Mycroft's hair loosened. Fingers stroked through the soft strands, damp at his temples with sweat. All the tension bled out of Jim's body as he sank down over the boy below him. Jim lay atop him like a blanket, warm breath touching Mycroft's ear as he rested. 

Jim's weight on top of him made it a bit more difficult to breathe, but it was... pleasant. Mycroft had always been somewhat tactile, even though his parents had rarely let him indulge the impulse, and now he had a warm body covering him, touching him, soft breathing tickling his skin. Jim's skin was sticky in comparison and his own body ached a bit, but Mycroft supposed he couldn't have _everything_. He clung to the man on top of him, closing his eyes and committing everything to memory.

Jim slid out of him slowly, discarding the condom in the wastebasket without breaking Mycroft's hold. When he settled back down, the man even returned it. The stickiness wasn't bothersome yet, not when they were so warm. And tired. Jim rested half atop him, boneless. It was a good thing he wasn't a particularly large man, or it could have been very uncomfortable. Jim seemed content to lie like that. He extracted one of the blankets from the mess they had become and wrapped it around them, then pressed his nose to Mycroft's hair. 

Content now that he felt assured Jim wasn't going to harm him in his sleep, Mycroft burrowed against him, feeling protected with another warm body beside him. That was, until he remembered.

Grey eyes slitted open, and Mycroft turned his head to look around the room. They were on the third floor, which was better than being on the first, but... "Jim? You have weapons in here, right? Do you have an escape plan?"

Jim blinked and raised an eyebrow. Then his lips curled at the corners. "Yes, Mycroft. I have three. Now go to sleep." Jim closed his eyes, but the curve of his lip remained. He sighed softly and tangled their legs together, much like he had in the van. If Jim fell asleep like that, there would be no getting out of bed without waking him. 

"...but I don't know them. What do I do if something happens to you?" Mycroft didn't even _know_ who might be looking for Jim; it added a whole other layer of danger he hadn't accounted for. Although, perhaps, it wouldn't be that different from the sorts of people his relatives used to hire.

Jim opened one eye. "If something happens to me, Seb will get you out. If something happens to Seb _and_ me, you'll find a helicopter waiting for you on the roof." Jim leaned in to speak in the boy's ear. "Although I might add that you'll have a difficult time convincing the pilot to let you leave alive without me," he whispered, voice suddenly icy. "Just in case you're getting ideas."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I just..." He gave the room one last glance and laid back down; it was pointless to ask Jim where the weapons were if the man suspected he just wanted a tool to kill him. "I always have to know how to get out. I don't like not knowing what to do if things turn bad. Sherlock told me that everyone I used to worry about is gone, but I can't stop worrying anyways."

Jim pulled him close. He seemed to believe Mycroft, at least the lack of tension in his body said as much, even if he kept notions of the boy turning on him in the back of his mind. Only an hour or so ago, they would have been completely valid. "There is a bomb in the foundation of this building," Jim whispered in the boy's ear once he was settled. "We either leave by air, or we leave in disguise through a passageway in the cellar. The house being leveled should create enough of a distraction for us to get away. If every other option fails, Seb has enough explosives in this place to make a run for it. I have another safe house within walking distance."

Mycroft nodded and tucked himself closer to Jim, apparently mollified. Enough for the moment, at least. "Alright." With Jim draped around him, he shouldn't have to worry about being separated tonight. Mycroft concentrated on the sound of the heartbeat beneath his ear. 

It wasn't long before they drifted off. Mycroft had had a trying day, and Jim had had quite a night. For now, a firm truce was in place between them. How long it would last remained to be seen, but both man and boy had discovered something in the other that previously had been unknown to each. 

A whole new world was opening for Mycroft, and Jim was beginning to have ideas of using it to pull him in and swallow him whole.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft woke partway through the night, startled into consciousness by an unusually vivid dream. He'd been kidnapped again, snatched off the streets onto to be taken to a warehouse and locked in a cage. His captors had turned out to be undead that weren't just quick, but clever. They'd argued about how long to keep him, whether to have one big feast or a meal in pieces or whether to merely bite him until he turned. 

The lock had refused to be picked until they'd made a decision and started closing in. One zombie had grabbed his legs to pull him out of the cage, leaning in to take his first bit when Mycroft got loose enough to kick him in the face.

Mycroft was crying out softly in his sleep. His arms and legs twitched and his body jerked in Jim's arms and it woke the criminal immediately. Apart from bouts of extreme fatigue, which left him sleeping like the dead, Jim was usually a very light sleeper. He opened his eyes and saw the boy cringing in his sleep, his eyes moving rapidly under pale lashes. 

Jim reached out and held the boy's face in his hands, "Myyycroft," he spoke in a sing-song whisper, "wake uuuup."

Something had grabbed onto his head. Mycroft's eyes opened and the first thing he registered was black eyes and an unfamiliar face. Still caught in the throes of the dream, the boy yelped and tried to scrabble backward, lashing out in an attempt to break free before the creature that had caught him had a chance to bite. "Nononono, getaway!"  
Jim's eyes narrowed and his grip tightened. When the boy's swing nearly knocked him in the nose, Jim lunged at him, using his weight to pin the smaller body beneath his. " _What the fuck are you doing?_ " Jim hissed, " _STOP. NOW._ " Any trace of the patience he'd had last night were gone. Moriarty, the man who ruled the criminal underworld with unforgiving hands, was back and snarling down at Mycroft. 

Mycroft struggled against Jim's grip, eyes shut so he wouldn't have to watch what was going to happen. He was so _certain_ that he was about to be ripped to shreds that there was a moment of confusion as the pain never arrived. Or rather, it was a different sort of pain - hands grabbing his wrists tight enough that bones and tendons were rubbing together agonizingly. 

Mycroft dared to look and immediately regretted it. All he could focus on was a snarling set of teeth.

" _Huuushhhh_ ," Jim cooed, his voice softer now that Mycroft had frozen, but not without an edge of ice behind it. Jim cocked his head. His eyes were bottomless pits, scanning every inch of Mycroft's face and visible skin. "You were having a nightmare. It was about me, wasn't it?" Jim's lips curled at that. He seemed to like the idea. 

Now that he'd snapped more firmly back into reality, Mycroft had a different set of worries. He'd actually tried to _hit_ Jim, and the older man wasn't taking it well. He shook his head. "...sort of? Not really. I... got kidnapped again, but it wasn't you and Seb. It was a bunch of zombies, but there were quick and smart, and they stuck me in a cage and started arguing. About whether to eat me or make me join them, or how and when to eat me if they were going to. And one of them couldn't wait any longer." 

Jim smirked. "And you don't think that's me?" He leaned down, eyes never leaving the boy's until Jim's teeth nipped sharply at his neck. "I think…that sounds _very_ similar. Are you afraid I'll eat you all up?" Jim bit again, this time sucking the spot afterward, like he were enjoying the taste. "You shouldn't be. I think you would like it. If I ate you, would you join me?" Jim's mood was improving, seemingly amused by this strange fantasy of Mycroft's subconscious. 

Mycroft watched Jim with wide eyes, trying to understand how Jim's suggestion was frightening and erotic at the same time. His breath hitched as Jim’s mouth latched onto his neck. "I don't want to be eaten," he whispered. "I don't want to die." Safety was still an illusion.

"Haven't you already died, in a fashion?" Jim mused softly. He was thinking of the way Mycroft had been, before the accident. "To then be reborn again? Killing you wouldn't do me any good now. But I'd still like to have a few bites." His lips smiled into Mycroft's shoulder, but the grip of Jim's hands slackened, allowing the boy to move his hands. 

Mycroft clenched his hands a few times to get blood flowing back into his limbs but made no move to struggle. Jim was already on a hair-trigger, ready to pounce. "Maybe, but that's not what I meant. If I have to be in a horror movie I don't want to be the victim. I'd rather be the monster. Except in the ones where the monster loses."

Jim paused, and then laughed. He eased his body down, resting against Mycroft without pinning him any longer. Jim regarded him with amusement. "It doesn't work that way. Either you have the potential, or you don't. If you do, and you still want it, then you have to change. Only _wanting_ it will get you nowhere." He stroked a finger down the tip of Mycroft's nose while his eyes smiled at the boy. 

"What do you mean?" Mycroft's nose wrinkled; Jim's finger had tickled. "Isn't that the point? I don't _have_ to do anything anymore. My parents are dead, most of my family is dead, and I don't think Sherlock can make me do anything I don't want to do. If I can figure out how to do it, I can do anything I want to now." The game would have changed with new technology, but all he had to do was puzzle out the new rules.

"Yes, you can do anything, be anything that you want to now. And you're starting from nothing. So telling me you want to be whatever it is you want means little to me… until you act on it." Jim rested his chin on the boy's chest. "I don't doubt you have the potential. But I wonder if you won't miss your dear brother too much?"

Mycroft's expression fell. "I like Sherlock, and it's fun to have someone else who actually understands. But I don't really know him. He was five, and now he's thirty-two, and he remembers everything that happened in between but _I don't_ and _it didn't happen to me_. He thinks I'm someone else and I don't know him at all."

Jim's expression didn't change, but his fingers stroked over Mycroft's delicate brow and down his temple. Jim was mapping his face. "You might like to get to know him someday. If you set out to become what you want to be now, that could be very difficult in the future. Especially if he remains as attached as he is to that doctor friend of his." 

The boy's mouth twisted into an unhappy line. "Doctor Watson is nice, but not very smart. And he was afraid of me, nearly the whole time. He'd pretend not to be, but he wasn't very good at pretending. I couldn't talk to him about anything. He just got upset and more afraid." Mycroft knew he was being asked to choose between the things he was interested in, the things he _liked_ to do but had never had much of a chance to try before, and the possibility of a relationship with a stranger. 

Jim nodded. "It's something to think on, then. But bear in mind that I do not allow those who work beside me to walk away so easily either." And _that_ was a warning. Jim's eyes hardened with the words before he went back to stroking Mycroft's skin. Leisurely touches ran down his neck and over his collarbone as Jim laid his head back down on the pillow beside Mycroft. 

That didn't offer Mycroft much of a choice. If he managed to get away, Sherlock would try to make him behave and John would eventually find out the truth. He'd be stuck sneaking whatever he could get. If he stayed, Jim would let Seb teach him and taking him hunting, and he'd get to do more of what he wanted... but he'd also have to do whatever Jim wanted. And maybe never see Sherlock again.

The boy sighed and turned away, opting for a view of the messy piles of electronics scattered about the room instead of Jim's knowing gaze.

Warm arms wrapped around him from behind and soft lips pressed against his shoulder. "Don't think yourself trapped," Jim whispered, the edges of sleep creeping into his voice. "All things change. You will grow up. You will find your own way. If you do not betray me, I will not harm you, whatever you decide later."

Mycroft let himself be held, listening to Jim's breathing deepen and slow as he drifted back towards unconsciousness. Mycroft couldn't sleep, too busy turning the situation over in his mind to settle back down. He waited in the warm dark, encircled by Jim's arms, mind humming until the morning came.

With it came the heavy steps of someone very large up the stairs. The door to Jim's room flew open, and, in a surreal parody of the night before at Sherlock's flat, Seb strode halfway through, shouting a loud, "Good morniiii—!" before Jim, who had previously been out cold mere moments before, sat up, and in one smooth motion, threw an alarm clock straight at Sebastian's head. Luckily, the blond ducked out of the way before it crashed loudly into the wall behind him. Jim flopped back down and made no move to get up. It was only then that Sebastian noticed Mycroft, staring wide eyed at him beside Jim. The gunman stopped. His eyebrows rose. "Oh…"

The boy couldn't have looked more stricken; he flushed and ducked back under the covers, even _knowing_ that it was stupid and pointless. Seb had already seen both of them and the piles of clothes on the floor. It wouldn't have been that difficult to put two and two together. Mycroft just didn't want to see the look on his face.

Seb's sigh was audible from the foot of the bed. "Jim, get out of bed." Seb waited. "Coffee's ready."

As though Jim could sense him about to move, he growled, "I swear to god Seb, if you touch me, I will disembowel you." 

The floor creaked and apparently Seb had stopped before he'd even taken a step. The man threw his hands up in the air, but finally, Jim sat up and glared at him. "Why the fuck did you wake me up?" 

"I wake you up every day that you actually fall asleep," Seb countered, crossing his arms. Without changing his tone, nor taking moving his gaze to the boy, Seb added, "Is he alright?" 

"I'm ok." Mycroft's voice was muffled from the blanket. Jim and Seb might have a work arrangement, but it seemed odd to the boy that they'd have anything more. Jim hadn't given off any signals that Sebastian was anything other than a trusted underling, which made it all the more strange that the bodyguard would stride into his boss's room. And apparently did it often. And that Jim was more annoyed at being woken up before he was ready than he was at being caught in a state of undress with... whatever Mycroft was. Captive, guest, sexual partner.

"Are you sure?" Seb sounded dubious. He also sounded like he was glaring at Jim. 

One of Jim's hands pulled back the blanket just far enough to stroke Mycroft's hair, nothing but disheveled red strands visible to the colonel. "See for yourself if you're so concerned," Jim countered, his voice hinting mockery at the other man. 

There was a brief, tense silence before Seb's footsteps rounded the side of the bed and a new weight sank into it as Seb sat down. He had been willing to let Jim do whatever he wanted to the boy last night, but that had also been when Seb hadn't expected to be dealing with him for more than a single night. It had also been before their tentative alliance began. 

"Mycroft?" the colonel's voice came deep. By comparison, Jim's was naturally quite soft. 

Mycroft felt deeply uncomfortable, put in the spotlight between Jim and Seb. This was just one more thing that had been ingrained into him to hide out of shame and fear; even more so because his parents had discovered _this_ interest. The resulting lecture and punishment had been harsh and etched the lesson vividly into his mind.

After a few moments of gathering his bravery and steeling himself, Mycroft slid out of the covers a bit more. He avoided Seb's gaze, but his neck and shoulders were patterned with red rosettes - more evidence of what had happened. "...I'm ok. I'm sore, but I'll be fine."

Jim leaned in to nuzzle at the boy's neck, smiling at Mycroft as though he were proud. He was delighted at seeing the flush over the boy's pink skin. "See, Seb? Perfectly fine." 

"Mmhmm," the colonel hummed skeptically. His eyes searched Mycroft's face. "Well if you're ever _not_ fine, you can come to see me. I have some experience patching people up." 

He made to stand, but Jim's hand flashed out and caught his wrist. Seb stopped. "No Seb, stay with us for a moment," Jim hissed. Anger boiled behind his falsely sweet smile. "I think you need to get a better understanding of our 'relationship'. Don't you, Mycroft?" 

"N-no, I think he already knows." Mycroft's blush deepened, shame flickering across his features. Given Jim's temper and mood swings, he didn't know why Jim had taken such offense to Seb's offer to patch him up should he get hurt. 

And now the bodyguard wouldn't look at him the same way. Mycroft had been hoping for a friend and a teacher, but why would Sebastian want to even be near him now? He'd change his mind, think Mycroft was too weak for hunting, not worth teaching. Mycroft had wanted to impress the older bodyguard and the opportunity had been completely ruined.

Jim's smile softened for the boy. He brushed the hair out of Mycroft's eyes, ruining his attempt at hiding by ducking his head. "No, I don't think he does. I think he needs to understand what I see in you." Jim rested his head against Mycroft's, side by side and looked fondly at Seb. "Because right now, he's only putting up with me." 

Seb regarded Jim warily. 

Jim's lips curled sweetly. His arms snaked around Mycroft's middle, pressing him to the criminal's side. "Sebastian, I want you to kiss Mycroft good morning." 

That made the boy bolt upright, grey eyes wavering between Jim and Seb in alarm. Jim's arms were possessive, and he had made it perfectly clear thus far that he wanted to keep Mycroft at his side... but now he wanted Seb to kiss him? It sounded like a trap, a _test_ , but he'd given Sebastian the order. If it was a test, he wasn't testing Mycroft.

The youth scanned over Sebastian's face, closer than he had before. Seb looked just as surprised by the order as Mycroft felt. At least... the colonel was handsome, if in a completely different way than Jim was. A kiss wouldn't be unpleasant, but Mycroft was worried it would ruin their chances at a friendship _even more_.

Jim pretended not to notice Mycroft's confusion. He waited patiently for Sebastian with a pleasant look about his face. His big, dark eyes, shockingly brown now that a small amount of light filtered through the corners of the window blinds, looked hopefully up at the man. Jim really shouldn't have been able to make himself look innocent, but somehow, he did. 

Amazingly, Sebastian's hard gaze was softening. Some of the fight was leaving him after only a _look_ from Jim. 

Jim broke their gaze to press his lips to Mycroft's ear, reminding him that he hadn't been forgotten, but when Jim looked back at the gunman, there was a teasing glint in his eye. "Do this for me, and I'll make it up to you." 

Mycroft glanced between them, wondering once again what the strange connection between them was. Sebastian was a little too fond, a little too flexible where his employer was concerned. Both men must have a history, but it wouldn't be the first conclusion that people jumped to - Jim was still toying with Seb, manipulating a bond that appeared to only go one way.

Mycroft ignored the breath in his ear and faced Sebastian, heart in his throat and hoping this didn't result in future rejection.

Sebastian sighed at Jim. He looked like he knew he was being manipulated, and it still was working. When he turned his attention to Mycroft, it was without malice or judgement. His eyes scanned the boy, less harshly than Jim's whenever the man assessed him. Seb was looking for confirmation from Mycroft and when he seemed to find it, he shifted closer, bending down. Sebastian's hand touched his cheek softly before his lips met Mycroft's. He was surprisingly gentle about it, but knowing that Jim wanted more, he deepened the kiss when Mycroft had a moment to grow accustomed to it. 

Mycroft was right on the cusp of starting puberty, attracted to men, and Sebastian fell into the range of men that he found aesthetically pleasing. The result was almost a foregone conclusion. The boy's lips parted to let Seb in. The warm, chocolaty taste of coffee hit his tongue. Mycroft hummed and pressed back into the kiss, embarrassment momentarily forgotten. Mycroft had started to develop a bit of a crush, and it was difficult to maintain feelings of shame when one's crush was willingly engaging in a kiss.

Seb relaxed when he felt the change. His hand rested more firmly against Mycroft's cheek, drifting to his neck even though it was nearly large enough to encompass both, and pulling him in. When they parted, Sebastian's apprehension had faded away, knowing Mycroft had responded as eagerly as Jim must have predicted. The lines in the corners of his blue eyes deepened when he gave the boy the barest hint of a smile. 

Jim, on the other hand, was watching the exchange with open glee, his eyes all but glittering and his lips spread wide. 

Mycroft was still flushed, but it wasn't with embarrassment now. He gave Seb a shy, adoring smile, one young hunter looking towards a master of the craft with awe. The scars only enhanced his appeal instead of detracting from it. 

Seb had smiled back. He had. Things were going to be alright, and Jim must be pleased, as he hadn't said anything or pulled Mycroft away.

" _Much_ better," Jim exclaimed. "I'll have that coffee now, Seb. Black, no sugar," he added with a flick of dark lashes. He was all but glowing, having stoked something that wasn't there before and effectively nullified Sebastian's judgmental attitude. 

Seb snorted. "Right. Sure thing, boss." He paused before he stood to leave and regarded Mycroft. "You want anything, too?" 

"Sure, um. Toast and tea?" Mycroft was hungry, but he remembered the conversation he'd had with Jim yesterday about Seb's dubious cooking skills. Putting bread in a toaster and steeping tea shouldn't be beyond the man's capabilities. Mycroft watched the bodyguard disappear through the doorway before turning back to Jim.

"Why'd you make him do that? ...that's not a complaint," he added, flustered again just _thinking_ about the kiss. 

Jim looked down at him. "Seb would have been uncomfortable dealing with us like this consistently. My… _tastes_ can be an annoyance to him sometimes." A smugness came over him. "Unless he comes to understand them himself. And I had a feeling you'd like it." Jim gave him a knowing smile. 

"Does he normally like men too, or just you?" Mycroft finally slid out of bed. His skin began prickling into goosebumps from the chill. It was a hunt to try to find all of his clothes, but Mycroft eventually gathered all of them and began pulling them on. "I'm going to need to go shopping for clothes again," he groaned, remembering all of the purchases that had been left behind at 221B. 

Sherlock and John were probably frantic by now. Just the thought gave Mycroft a twinge of guilt.

Jim only laughed. "Yes, I suppose you will. But they can be ordered." He ran his hands through his hair and climbed out of bed, disregarding his clothes completely and heading for the washroom instead. "Sebastian likes anything on legs, most especially me, not that he'll admit it aloud,” Jim said, leaving the door open. "But normally, he doesn't have an affinity for kids." The sound of the running shower came on. 

Mycroft listened wistfully to the sound of water, then shook his head. He'd try to see about getting a shower later, perhaps when Jim wouldn't be tempted to join him. "Is... that all it is?" The boy had caught something in the way Jim had phrased things. "You won't like me as much when I get older?" That would throw a significant twist in how he planned for the future and how he viewed his options.

The sound of the water changed with Jim underneath it. It was audible running over his skin and then the sides of the glass as he moved. Jim's voice was faint on the other side. "Not unless you stay interesting," Jim laughed. "You remember what changed my opinion of you yesterday. I even held a grudge against you then. If that was 'all it is', then you would be dead by now." It was only a minute later before the water shut of and Jim could be heard toweling dry. His dark head poked out of the doorway to look at Mycroft before he emerged with a towel around his waist. "All things change, Mycroft. Even you. Especially you. You might not like _me_ when you're older."

"We'll see." Mycroft couldn't imagine changing all that much. Then again, he couldn't imagine ever growing up into the sort of person he apparently had the first time around. Isolated from everyone, following strict social norms, just another boring government suit. Mycroft's mouth twisted into a grimace just thinking about it. 

Jim dressed quickly, this time in very casual clothes. Jeans and a V-neck t-shirt didn't seem to fit him. They fit his figure perfectly, but they made him look like a different person entirely. He sat back down on the bed and tilted his head back, giving Mycroft a very persuasively kind look with his big eyes and pouting lips. "Come here."

Mycroft wandered closer, amazed at how completely Jim had subsumed himself into a different image. More than the change of clothes, the man's body language had shifted subtly. The demon was gone, leaving a short, delicate-featured man in its place. "Yeah?"

Jim caught his wrists and tugged him closer until the boy was sitting half on the bed and half in his arms. "If you choose to stay, I would like to teach you many things," Jim said quietly against his ear. There was no edge to it this time. He might just as well have been telling Mycroft he would like to read him a story. "Like this, for example. Today, my name is Richard Brook. I've only parking tickets to my name and I've never held a gun in my life. I'm a small time television actor, The Storyteller. It's only out on DVD." When Jim smiled, he looked almost shy. "I'm an actor, always. And this is one of many personas. All it takes…is practice."

There was no hiding the awe in Mycroft's eyes. "I can't even see you at all," he murmured, leaning closer to peer at Jim. His body was the same, but only in terms of unalterable physical features. There wasn't even a hidden spark left in his eyes, which somehow appeared far more brown than the bottomless black he'd seen the previous day. A spike of jealousy rippled through the boy. It only made sense that Jim was more skilled, given that he'd had many more years of practice, but it didn't stop the petty emotion from surfacing. "You're really good at it."

A bit of the old Jim crept back into his eyes when he smiled. "You could learn. I can slip in and out of it when I want to show someone what lies underneath. I can be anyone. The more time I put into one persona, the stronger it becomes. Richard has friends and a career and a file in government networks, and he doesn't exist. Neither does Jim Moriarty. Jim Moriarty has none of those things. Instead, I can live through a dozen different people at once." 

"I want to learn." Mycroft could easily see a use for the skill. It would be an extension of what he was already used to doing - hiding and playing a part, using what he could read off other people to manipulate them and get his way. Instead of pulling strings to watch petty social dramas flare up and getting free goodies from local shops, however, he could do more sophisticated things. Pull off a major event and slip back into the shadows before someone took notice. "Teach me?"

The expression that spread over Jim's face was all him again. The cunning, manipulative edge was back. "I can. But for now, we should go get our coffee." And then Jim was rising, bringing Mycroft to his feet as well, brushing the boy's hair with his fingers and walking out the door. 

Already the smell of toast was wafting through the stairway. 

Mycroft's stomach rumbled its complaints as they approached the kitchen. Seb had already gotten the table set up, including Mycroft's request of toast, and he'd managed to find a jar of jam to go with it. Mycroft found his seat and promptly started fixing his tea the way he preferred it - which was to say that it was mostly milk and sugar with a bit of tea added in.

"What're we doing today?" Mycroft asked as he worked his way through a slice of toast.

Jim sat down beside him, gripped his coffee in hand, pulled out his phone, and set down neither for the next ten minutes. It was Seb who answered, taking a seat opposite them at the table and crunching one piece of toast after another, all of them dripping with melted butter. "Back to business. We won't be staying long in London." His eyes drifted to Jim, not sure yet how much he should say. 

"There's a summit in Cairo in three days," Jim continued in his stead, neither setting down the coffee nor moving his eyes from the screen of his mobile, "We need to know who's attending, and so far, electronic communication between attendees has been nil. Seb will therefore be extracting said information from one of the attendees for us."

Mycroft perked up, straightening in his chair. "So we're going to Egypt? I've never been anywhere in Africa before." Concern flickered in the back of his mind - lack of escape options if needed, lack of language proficiency, cultural faux pas, and needed immunizations. "Can I watch?" he asked, half to Seb and half to Jim. Seb wouldn't let him see anything if Jim expressed disapproval, but Mycroft really wanted to see an example of his work, his techniques.

Finally, Jim's expression changed ever so subtly. The corner of his mouth lifted. "I was going to suggest it." 

Sebastian watched his employer with suspicious eyes. He looked like he thought Jim was up to something, which probably meant that Jim was, indeed, up to something. When Jim made no further comment on the matter, Seb shrugged and went back to his toast and coffee. "We'll be leaving after lunch. Arriving just outside the city; the subject's being held in a bunker there. Good facility. No one is going to ask questions, but we'll have to keep you out of sight for the most part."

A slight frown creased Mycroft's brow, but he didn't voice any complaints about it; he was pleased at being allowed to watch in any capacity. If he proved he could handle it and stuck with the pair, Mycroft was certain more opportunities would come along where he'd be allowed to get closer. "How're we going to do that, then? Video feeds? Or one-way glass?"

Jim's lips spread wider. "There will be an interrogation room in which we will be able to see everything behind a panel of glass, yes. Seb will be working on the other side. It's…" he closed his eyes, slowly, planning. "…really quite comfortable." And that prompted another suspicious glance from Sebastian. 

"So we'll be close by and able to get a good view?" Mycroft had detected something different about Jim's tone, but he was too excited to finally have a chance to experience things he'd been daydreaming about, without condemnation. 

That train of thought brought another question to light. "What're you going to do with the attendee once you're done with him?"

"Kill him," Jim said simply. He'd schooled his features into nonchalance once more. "It won't matter if he turns up missing later, he's not important. Besides, if everything goes our way, two of his colleagues will show at the summit, and they won't be leaving. A fairly cut and dry assassination, but one necessary to provoke a reaction from the UN." Jim drummed his fingers on the table, getting bored with his phone. "Which is really only the beginning of this project." 

A sort of nervous energy thrummed around Mycroft and he went utterly still - even his breath was held. He licked his lips, glancing between the two men with wide eyes full of want. "...if... I do very well," he began, pushing around a piece of toast on his plate. "...when watching, I mean... Can I...? Can I help at the end, maybe? If he's going to die, it's not going to matter if he sees me, will it?"

Jim set his phone down. "If…" he drawled, "you're _very_ good. And aren't otherwise occupied," he added with the faintest hint of a smile. "I don't see how it would matter." 

Sebastian was giving Mycroft an openly knowing look, but he didn't have any objections to Jim's decision. He gave Mycroft a small nod. 

Although it remained to be seen how the boy would act in the situation, Mycroft got so excited whenever the subject came up that neither man could doubt his interest. Jim would have never been so lenient with him otherwise. 

Mycroft's smile should have been cute, coming as it did from a small boy of barely twelve years, all innocent features and cherub curls and an endearing scattering of freckles. It was a bit too wide, too impish and curled at the corners, with too much of an implication of hidden sharp teeth. He was a monstrous changeling stuck into the body of a human boy.

Mycroft went back to eating his toast with relish, blushing with pleasure and anticipation of the events to come later that day. "How d'you decide if I've been good enough?" It wouldn't do to miss this opportunity by not knowing the rules, after all.

Jim smiled openly and rested his chin in his palm as he watched the boy eat. Promises of unknown and exciting things to come danced in his eyes. "Don't worry. You'll know." He was getting another curious look from Sebastian, but the man seemed to be catching on to whatever Jim was alluding to. A dawning glint of comprehension made his blue eyes clear, and his lip even quirked at his boss before he finished off the last of his breakfast. 

"What're we doing in the meantime, before we leave?" Mycroft normally would have been content to go off on his own, but that wasn't going to be permitted. Not yet. Without access to the computers in the house or permission to go outside, boredom was going to set in quickly. That was something the boy wanted to avoid, if at all possible. 

Sebastian snorted a laugh. "Get ready Jim, he is gonna drive you crazy." 

Jim, who had already picked up his phone again, paused to glare at the colonel. His eyes dropped and his thumb resumed its darting path over the screen. "I will be working, Seb will be making preparations, and you may make use of one of the laptops. Or keep yourself busy." Jim rose from the table, eyes still glued to his phone, and made his way back toward his room. 

Seb gave Mycroft a tight lipped, sympathetic smile. "He's not one to entertain."

"You told me I'd need to ask you for passwords," Mycroft pointed out. If Jim was going to leave him to fend for himself most of the time, Mycroft was going to need a lot more than empty rooms full of furniture and computers he couldn't access. He was going to go mad if he couldn't find something to fill the time and occupy his mind.

"Then you'd better come up here," Jim called from the stairs. His footfalls lazily made their way out of earshot. 

"It's alright," Seb said before Mycroft could go. "If he bothers you too much, I'll show you how to play cards or something." The man cleared off the table and picked up a heavy duffel bag off the floor, laying it where they had eaten. Opening its zipper revealed an arsenal of weaponry. He sat down and began laying each piece out to be cleaned. 

Mycroft eyed the bag like it was full of candy, but after a few seconds he turned to dash after Jim. There would be time for weaponry later. Computers held a greater variety of possibilities and, thus, a greater potential to keep him occupied. And being occupied kept the pain and ennui away.

Mycroft ran back up the stairs towards Jim's bedroom. The majority of the technological pieces he'd seen thus far were housed there, so the computer Jim would let him use would likely be in that room.

He found Jim curled up on the couch with one of the laptops and another running at his side, just booting up. He nudged it across the coffee table with his foot, until it knocked against one of the hard drive stacks and nearly sent them tumbling down. "Sit down and I'll give you the password." 

Mycroft grabbed the laptop and sat, impatiently staring at the loading screen. He'd begun to learn a bit about operating systems during the brief time he'd been in 221B, but he'd been side-tracked by other things. Mycroft was determined to do whatever he could to learn about computers and programming. Getting himself up to speed on the way the world had changed was also high priority, but computers were a source of power hanging within easy reach. 

Instead of simply telling him so that Mycroft could input the phrase, Jim handed Mycroft his phone. On it was a string of letters, numbers, and characters…that went on forever. "Remember, it's case sensitive." He sat back down and resumed typing, tuning out of the world again. 

Mycroft stared at the phone's screen for a moment, trying to discern a pattern to the sequence. He gave up with a shrug and set about committing it to memory. After a few minutes of silence he set down the mobile and began to input the code string. There wasn't any indication that he had trouble recalling the sequence. Once the input box was filled with asterisks, Mycroft hit the enter key and the screen shifted to a desktop. "Anything else I need to know?"

"You have access to public, searchable web and little more unless you find it on your own. That computer is running on a hidden network, so don't worry about your progress being tracked. Obviously, you should never use your real name or information, location included, if you sign up for anything." A touch of humor lightened Jim's gaze. "Now go crazy."

Mycroft shot Jim a smile and clicked up the web browser. He quickly figured out how to save pages on different tabs for comparison, and soon enough he was looking through several different guides about programming languages, networking, and security. Happily, some of the mathematics and logic involved in the process didn't seem to be more advanced than his current abilities. One site offered free tools to play around with coding and Mycroft selected a few to try out.

They worked in silence until it was time to leave. Seb came up, and knocked this time, before he appeared with two of the duffels over his shoulder. As though expected, Jim clicked closed his laptop and stretched on the couch. "Time to run, sweet," he said and patted Mycroft's hair in a slightly off display of affection. 

They took little before leaving. Jim assured him they had fully stocked accommodations in the city. This time as they headed out of the house, Jim didn't bother to restrict the boy's vision. It turned out they'd been just outside of the city proper. The few towers of downtown could be seen in the far distance. 

They rode a town car to a small, private airport where Jim had a personal jet waiting. 

Mycroft stuck close to the two men, watching everything and saying little. His mind was only looking forward, towards the treat he'd been promised in Cairo. He'd not admit as much to Seb and Jim, but he was a little nervous - he'd not ever physically toyed with and taken apart any creature that was truly big, much less one that could talk back to him. Mycroft had a bit of stage fright.

They boarded the plane and Seb left them to sit in the cockpit with the pilot. They had roughly a 5 hour wait ahead of them, but Jim had brought his phone and, he revealed, one for Mycroft as well. It looked just like his. They spent much of the flight going over its operation, with Jim explaining how it would work on the same service even in Egypt and how he would be able to track it if they were ever separated. 

The boy learned exceptionally quickly. It seemed like he had an eidetic memory, allowing him to replicate actions precisely after only being shown once. Mycroft listened and watched and absorbed it all, particularly the bit about tracking.

Sherlock might have been family, but he'd also been as much of a stranger as John, Seb, and Jim were. The unfamiliarity put them all on an equal playing field, more or less. Mycroft still thought about Sherlock and John with a tinge of guilt, knowing that his disappearance would bring his brother grief, but he couldn't risk trying to contact them. He couldn't risk _this_.

That was what Jim was gambling on. In a way, every new subject he opened for the boy was a test - a test to see how much he wanted to be a part of Jim's world and how much he missed the old one. He had not had many chances to fail, at least not yet, and Jim's considerable attraction to him helped things quite a lot. 

Before they touched down, Jim broke their conversation to change. He kept a small room in the back of the plane, large enough only for a bed and a closet, but it apparently was stocked with a few of his personal items as well. When he reemerged he was wearing an all-black suit and looking as pristine as the night Mycroft had first met him. There would be no one but Moriarty in his persona until they were alone again. 

The attraction didn't only go one way; from the way Mycroft stared, it seemed he approved of the effect of the suit. Most especially of the expert tailoring. It lent Jim a nightmarish, yet elegant quality - a fey gentleman who'd stepped out of a shadow realm for a brief period of amusement, pulling mortal strings until he grew bored again.

Mycroft pocketed the mobile Jim had given him and stood. "Do I have to worry about being seen while we're travelling? Or is that just when we get to the place with the interrogation room?"

Jim nodded. "My face isn't known here, but there are always agencies watching. Not only would you and I walking together seem unusual, but the British government will be looking for you by now. We'll be taking a car and staying indoors wherever we go. If you need anything, we move in disguise, or send Sebastian." Jim straightened the hem of his suit and glanced to the window. 

They were descending now. The scene below them was vastly different from the one they had left. Cairo was expansive, gold and brown and miraculously green in patches, surrounded by an equally expansive desert. Jim took his seat next to Mycroft and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

Mycroft did his best to hide his disappointment. He supposed that Cairo seen from the indoors was better than nothing, but he'd still been curious about the city and the environment. If Jim was concerned about being noticed, there would be no side trips to museums and art galleries, no wandering the streets trying food and pickpocketing whoever took his fancy. It would be the stale air and sterile coldness of hotel rooms for the duration of their trip, aside from when he got to watch Sebastian work.

Jim seemed to notice anyhow. He stroked the boy's cheek, peering at him intently. "Don't fret. There are places we can go, unobserved." 

The plane was coming down quickly now. Outside their window, the high rises of the city flashed by underneath. They would be landing on the edge of it. One side of their view was dominated by greenery a sea of steel. Somewhere beyond would lie the Nile. The other side was an expanse of almost barren desert, interrupted only by sparse roads and buildings. 

They touched down in Cairo International Airport and Jim waited for the plane to come to a halt before squeezing Mycroft's shoulder and rising. He was met by Sebastian at the cabin door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for graphic violence, torture, and gore.** This is the most gore-intense chapter. The other chapters don't really compare, so if you cannot stomach the content, you can safely skip past the portion detailing the torture and should be fine with the rest of the chapters. - SilusLocke

Mycroft ghosted along behind him, a pale shadow for a man sheathed in darkness. Sebastian accompanied them down the walkway, always situated in the direction of greatest risk. The plane had landed on a secluded portion of the airstrip intended for security and relative privacy - there were no windows in the walkway and the gate was separate from the concourses used by the general public. The trio passed unobserved through nondescript hallways and a stairwell until they came to a small parking garage on the ground floor. A vehicle with tinted windows was ready and waiting.

Seb got the door for Jim and Mycroft, and then spoke briefly to their driver before they pulled away, leaving him to follow in a second vehicle. Their driver didn't ask questions; he kept his eyes on the street. Jim didn't make any move to speak either; he simply cracked his neck and checked his phone once or twice as they emerged into the sunlight. 

They were far east of the city and heading toward it, but it was going to be a drive even along the steady moving highway. Jim pointed out when they entered Nasr City and mentioned a few banal details about shopping malls and dinning places. He sounded like a tourist. 

They followed the highways south after leaving the Nasr district, and south they continued until the landscape became industrial, comprised of open desert and warehouses. On they went with the towers of Cairo far off in the distance, their presence a constant tease of curiosity, until they reached the outskirts of the true desert. 

Mycroft had listened to Jim's short, informational bursts of speech, but the majority of his attention had been focused on devouring the scenes outside of his window. Even with a certain amount of repetition, the drive had been fascinating. The culture and environment was completely different than Great Britain; already he'd spotted a variance in body language and hand gestures, and so many of the signs were in cursive scripts he couldn't even begin to puzzle out.

Even once they reached the edges of the city and approached the wilderness, Mycroft stared hungrily at the outdoors. He knew of a handful of animals native to the area that he'd never had a chance to see outside of a zoo before - hippopotamus, crocodile, ibis, and desert jackal. Different insects. New things to see, and moreover, new things to catch.

When they finally came upon a compound, they had been driving on nearly open terrain for ages. Jim was glancing at him with a knowing look in his eye as he watched Mycroft in all of his curiosity. They passed through two sets of gates, made their way slowly through a maze of colorless buildings, and pulled to a stop. 

Jim leaned forward and spoke something in Arabic to the driver, who then nodded quickly and waited for Sebastian to park and stride off to one of the buildings. He disappeared inside and reemerged a minute later with two guards - at least, they could be assumed to be guards as they were dressed for the desert and carrying weaponry around their shoulders - who opened a garage door for their car. The driver took them slowly inside and the garage door came down behind them. 

Jim gave the boy a quick wink and Seb opened the door. The criminal exited smoothly and straightened his tie as he regarded the men who'd let them in. He gave a jerk of his head and spoke again in the local dialect, and they left hurriedly. 

Mycroft watched Jim in open admiration. Moriarty had had many years in which to gain a variety of abilities, but he clearly had a repertoire that was both broad and deep. Exceptional skill, especially when combined with exceptional knowledge, had always impressed Mycroft. "How many languages do you know?" he asked quietly. The guards had left, but Mycroft wasn't certain how far away they were, or how much sound might carry in the building.

" _Many_ ," Jim replied, equally as soft. "The skill is in the process of learning, not the language itself." Jim walked and Sebastian fell into step beside him. The place seemed to be deserted. On this end it was comprised of a large garage, housing a jeep and a Humvee. They went through a locked set of doors and into a long, narrow hallway. "They've assured me everything is ready. Make sure it is," Jim said to Sebastian, who nodded. He moved on ahead of them before they reached a stairwell. The heavy sound of his boots clattered down the concrete and then disappeared. Minutes later, Jim's phone chimed and he smiled. "And away we go," he said merrily. 

They descended the stairs in darkness until Seb hit the lights on the basement floor. There they found another hall, but this branched out into four rooms, each split in half - one part for viewing, and one for detainment. 

Mycroft waited patiently at Jim's side, knowing his compliance would determine to what degree he would be allowed to indulge in his interest. When Jim moved towards the viewing room Mycroft followed, eagerly taking in the contents of the space.

The room hadn't been built with comfort in mind, only function. Several utilitarian chairs surrounded a table, all of which had an optimal view of the interrogation room beyond. Mycroft noted with interest that the feet of the chairs were well-padded, the frames solid; there would be no squeaking and scraping to alert any prisoners as to whether the observation room was occupied or not.

Jim closed the door behind them, but there was another inside, one that led to the room behind the glass where a lone man waited for them. He was short for a man, probably near Jim's height, but he was thicker and of a sturdier build. Probably older too, though his face was obscured by a black cloth over his head. Dressed in civilian's clothing, he looked clean enough to have spent only a short time in captivity, but already he had perspired through the front of his shirt, leaving what was once pristine white cotton a mottled yellow-grey. He had been affluent. His clothes spoke for him, even though his body language presented another image. Head bent forward, cuffed to a chair, shoulders curled in on himself, this man was already defeated. 

"Come and sit with me," Jim said, pulling one of the chairs away from the table. He positioned it right in front of the glass. They wouldn't be taking notes, and there were only the two of them present for discussion. 

Mycroft obeyed, but slowly. His eyes were riveted on the man behind the glass, drinking in the fear radiating from him. He was so unwilling to look away that he almost ran into the chair Jim had pulled out for him. Mycroft caught himself just in time and sat, finally forcing himself to look at Jim. The older man appeared eager, but he wasn't staring at the victim in the interrogation room. "Does Seb already know what to ask?"

Jim nodded once. He pulled up another chair just behind Mycroft so he could lean in and glance over the boy's shoulder. "He does. And poor Timothy here already knows what I want." Jim tilted his head and looked at the scene almost fondly, as though he were staring out at a sunny meadow. "Too bad for him, I'll be able to tell if he's lying." 

On the other side, Sebastian opened the door. The man's head shot up instantly. His posture didn't straighten. As rigid as he'd become, he was still curled in on himself as much as the restraints would allow. He could hear Seb as the colonel closed the door behind him and placed his duffel on a tray in the corner of the room, which he wheeled into sight a moment later. Sebastian said something. It was in Arabic and therefore unintelligible, but it came out of his mouth like an echo of Jim's unearthly drawl. He continued speaking this way as he unzipped the bag. His voice was much deeper than Jim's, but his words came in short phrases. He wasn't fluent. 

Timothy's head jerked this way and that, following the sounds, but saying nothing. The rise and fall of his chest deepened.

The tension in Mycroft's small frame visibly increased. He leaned forward, eyes darkening in anticipation as he followed Seb's movements. He licked his lips as he watched Seb unpack his bag of tools. He could almost _taste_ the fear through the pane of glass, feel the air vibrate with the man's quiet trembling. He couldn't understand anything that Sebastian was saying, but he could read the tones and the body language just fine... and he seemed to enjoy it a little too much. 

Jim's breath tickled the back of his neck and Mycroft shivered. 

"He's explaining what I want," the criminal whispered, "which Timothy is very well aware of." Jim's feet scraped the floor behind Mycroft, widening his legs while Sebastian finally leaned in and tore away the sack over the trembling man's head. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin, staring up at Seb with wide, frightened eyes. He was a middle aged man, nearing his elder years, and Caucasian, but probably more used to Middle Eastern living. His clothing spoke of wealth. He looked like a man who'd been used to getting his way. He didn't look that way anymore. 

Seb smiled cruelly, tilting his head like he were examining the man's throat as he walked around him, speaking unhurriedly in soft, somewhat stunted Arabic. He held no weapons yet, but the man could see them laid out for him on the table if he bothered to look. Instead, his eyes never left Sebastian. 

"And now, he's explaining what he will do to him if he doesn't give it to me," came Jim's soft tone from behind. 

Mycroft's awareness was torn in two - the game of cat and mouse unfolding in front of him and Jim's presence directly behind him. "But it's going to happen anyways, isn't it?" Mycroft asked wistfully. It had to happen; he'd been promised that he could watch and participate at the end. _If_ he was good. "Even if he gives you everything, Seb is still going to play with him before he dies. Right?"

Mycroft tore his gaze away to turn and look at Jim. He needed to see reassurance - a smile, a touch, anything.

Jim's eyes were glowing with madness, all of it focused on the boy. He cocked his head and his lips pulled back in something that should have been a smile, but so intense was Jim's interest in Mycroft's reaction that it seemed he was unaware of himself, how the expression didn't fit right upon his face. ”Oh yes he will. Even if he didn't enjoy it so much, he has an audience to perform for now, doesn't he?” The hungry gleam in Jim's eyes was a clearer indication of his innermost thoughts than his mouth was, but he tore his gaze away from Mycroft and glanced back through the window. Seb had moved to the work table and selected a small knife first. He glanced up through the glass for the briefest moment, and though he could not see them, it was as if they made silent contact. Then he turned around and all that remained visible was his back, tall and straight, posture strained with subdued tension. Timothy, however, was quite visible. He was shaking and speaking rapid-fire Arabic, but the look on his face as he watched Seb approach said that he didn't expect to make it out alive.

Mycroft's attention was fixed back on the scene behind the glass. The boy was rapt, hypnotized, eyes tracing the path of the knife in the air and the raw fear writ large on the victim’s features. When the blade finally descended Mycroft shifted forward, perhaps unconsciously, wanting to get closer to get an even better view. Fabric parted under the sharp edge of the knife, followed by a delayed, thin blossoming of red. Mycroft moaned quietly, low in his throat, the sound barely audible. 

The prisoner began babbling louder, faster, desperate to ward off further injuries. Mycroft gazed on in longing, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as his mental excitement began to overlap into the physical.

Sebastian continued, head bent and focused on his work. The first incision had been in the top of the man's thigh, and a relatively shallow cut. Though the man was speaking, Seb gave no indication that he was listening. Perhaps that was why he had declared his motives at the very beginning. Timothy would have that to think about for the duration of his torture and Seb would not have to work to remind him. He moved onto the next leg while the man cringed and bent as far away as possible. He whispered pleas and turned his head away, but still the knife came.

”See how he freezes when Seb makes a cut?” Jim whispered in Mycroft's ear. He'd leaned in even closer. His lips brushed the boy's flesh. ”That's the work of his rational mind, telling him the wound will only be worse if he struggles, that Seb might have mercy if he's only quiet enough.” Jim's lips spread. ”That won't last long.”

Seb moved smoothly from the second leg to unbuttoning the man's shirt. It was slow, methodical, and almost delicate until he pushed the fabric aside and exposed a pale chest and shoulders. Sebastian had a good sense for timing. He turned the blade in his fingertips and mapped the rising and falling skin with his gaze while the man sweated before making a stabbing, grinding incision into the ball of his shoulder.

When Mycroft's breath caught for the second time, Jim's hand ran seamlessly up his thigh. Soft lips pressed against his ear again. ”I can see what this does for you.” Another hand reached around from behind to smooth over his other leg.  
A rush of endorphins washed through Mycroft and caught his nerve endings on fire. His hips canted against the hands that had drifted up his thighs to stop _just_ short, teasing through denial. Jim was close enough that he couldn't have missed the heat radiating from him, nor the slight tension in his trousers that belied any notion that Mycroft's interest in the scene before them was purely intellectual.

The man in the other room screamed and Mycroft responded as if it were a lover's moan, shivering with a slight smile touching his parted lips. 

"That's right," Jim purred in his ear. The criminal placed a kiss over the lobe. "Why don't you come sit with me?" He nudged his chair forward and pulled Mycroft toward him. The boy's arms wrapped around his shoulders until Jim situated him in his lap, facing the window. Jim was hard beneath him, and he slotted the cleft of Mycroft's arse against his length while he pressed along his back. Jim's chin rested on his shoulder, watching the proceedings side by side. His hands slid up the boy's inner thighs, stopping to tease at the crease in his trousers just beside his crotch. "Much better." 

In the room beyond, things had progressed. Sebastian was now methodically making cuts all over the man's body. Every which way he moved pulled at the ones Seb had left in his wake. They bled freely and openly, but none were deep enough to kill, nor placed to hit a major vein. He was crying. 

Mycroft had never had to deal with such stimuli, much less ones of such potency. There was no comparison between the small animals he'd toyed with in the past and the performance art that Sebastian was displaying. It was enthralling, exquisite. Jim's teasing was just one more push over the threshold into unfamiliar territory. Watching the spectacle before them only heightened Mycroft's senses and magnified the physical pleasures.

Teasing wasn't quite enough. Jim was hard and warm behind him, shifting ever so slightly with suggestive friction that made the boy's mind jump back to memories of the previous night, and his fingers were _so close_. Mycroft's hand reached and covered one of Jim's own, pulling and encouraging him to close the distance by those final few millimeters. His other hand drifted back to stroke the side of Jim's face.

The skin under his hand, rough with stubble, pulled and he could tell Jim was grinning. The man's palm brushed softly against the front of his trousers, teasing and tantalizing the small hardness beneath. Jim palmed harder on the second stroke, cupping Mycroft firmly at the end. 

Sebastian had lit a cigarette while he worked. Though they couldn't see his face, they could see the glowing end of it dangling out the side of his mouth and the wisps of smoke curling over his head. His dark blond hair had been swept back for the occasion, he would have wanted no distractions, and it looked darker in the room's spotlight. He got up to reveal his handiwork, rising from his chair opposite the man and slowly making a circle around him. Timothy sat, exhausted and trembling, bleeding freely from the shallow cuts all across his body and the deep pits of those in his shoulder and legs. Sebastian flicked the knife closed and stretched his fingers as he spoke once again, voice calm and soft. 

Jim sighed in pleasure against Mycroft's neck. "He's illustrating for our subject what he plans to do next. With a nice amount of detail, I must say." 

Sebastian stopped behind the man and rested his hands on his shoulders. He strained violently against the cuffs. Seb's hands closed around his neck. 

"Wait, what's he's saying?" Mycroft was briefly snapped out of the sensual haze, frowning in concern at the scene through the panel. "He's not just going to choke him to death, is he? You had said I could help, at the end. If I was good," Mycroft amended. He didn't want things to end so soon, not with the treat that'd been dangled before him. He'd be very upset if he'd behaved all day and been so very patient only to be denied at the end.

The boy moved as if he were going to slide off of Jim's lap; the older man's pulled him back and held him still.

"Not so _fast_ ," Jim giggled. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft. "Typically, he'll have two to three minutes before he loses consciousness, six minutes before irreparable brain damage occurs and then death. Quicker when he struggles like that in such a panic." Jim enunciated every syllable, cutting off the c at the end like it was a taste of something he wanted to savor. "Sebastian explained the process of asphyxiation. He also led dear, poor Timothy to believe it's over. We have the names of the marks attending the summit. That's what he was _babbling_ before. No more reason to keep him alive," Jim's giggle vibrated into Mycroft's back, "except to have our fun." Jim's dark eyes caught the boy's, so close, side by side. "The execution is fake. Timothy will pass out, and wake up seconds after Seb lets go. He'll think he should have died. Have you ever read Crime and Punishment?" For a moment the question seemed like a non sequitur. "Famed Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky faced his own mock execution. It affected him for the rest of his life."

"Yes, I've read it. I've learned a lot of things from reading. Mostly because nobody ever wants to tell a kid anything really interesting or important, and they think books are safe and innocent enough." Nobody had paid attention to what Mycroft had been consuming; the adults around him had just been happy he was occupied in something 'constructive' and out of their hair. Books had been where he'd found some of his best inspiration. 

"Seb will know to let go before he gets too damaged though, won't he?" Mycroft didn't want to play with a vegetable that didn't respond. The responses were the whole _point_. The boy turned his head so that he could face Jim more directly. Already he was beginning to relax again now that the older man had reassured him that the game wasn't over yet.

"Seb will know," Jim reassured him. "Seb can feel his pulse under his hands. He can see the pallor of his skin and the movement of his eyes. Right now, Seb is counting seconds." 

Timothy slumped suddenly. The tension that had coiled in him and eventually frozen him in place bled out of his every limb. Fifteen seconds later Sebastian released him. The blond man glanced to the window and gave a quick nod before going to the cart in the corner. He took a dark green canister from it, the nozzle at the top a distinctly long pipe, curved at the end. He set at the foot of his chair and sat before the man as he was coming to. 

Sebastian's grinning face was the first thing he saw when he woke. He gave a full bodied jerk and began gasping for air, the sensation still ready in his mind. 

Seb only grinned wider and held out his hands, speaking something in Arabic that sounded a hell of a lot like "what, you thought it was over?" before he took the cigarette from his lips. Timothy froze in trembling fear when Seb grabbed his wrist and wrenched it forward, pausing before he brought it down on the inside of the man's forearm. 

"He nodded. Does that mean it's time for us to go in?" Mycroft grinned as Timothy shrieked from the burning fag being ground into tender skin. If the man had been intended to survive, such a wound would have left a burn scar. The boy's expression turned supplicatory, eyes wide and chin tilted to try to maximize the effectiveness of his begging. "Pleeeeeeease, Jim? Can we go?" Mycroft had to pause for a moment as Jim's hand caressed him once more and his breath temporarily left his lungs. "Please? I want to see. I want to find out what that green thing does."

He also desperately wanted to impress both of the men, but Mycroft was at a bit of a loss as to how to accomplish that. With everything the two of them had seen, it was unlikely he could come up with something novel on the spur of the moment.

Jim's eyes turned hungry as he looked at the boy. "You'll have to convince me, I think." He leaned back and let his hands fall to Mycroft's hips. "And you'll have to do it without words. _Then_ we can go in." His lips parted as they gazed at each other, and Jim shifted his hips so that Mycroft could feel him. He made no move to advance on the boy. Jim wanted Mycroft to do it. 

Mycroft's grey eyes flickered between Jim and the interrogation room. Jim could almost see the clockwork turning in the boy's head as he tried to puzzle out what to do. He didn't want to miss what was going on, but other options were limited. A quick exploration of Jim's pockets ruled out the possibility that the older man had secreted a bottle of lubricant on his person, and Mycroft wouldn't have wanted to wait through all the preparation required.

Mycroft’s gaze sharpened as he reached his decision. The smile he gave Jim was full of bravado; he pried Jim's hands from his hips and slid off the man's lap. Whatever protestations Jim might have voiced died as Mycroft turned around and dropped to his knees, small hands darting to the fastenings of Jim's trousers. Mycroft wasn't spending time trying to draw this out; he wanted to indulge Jim a bit, perhaps even surprise him, and get in that room as quickly as possible.

Mycroft's hand wrapped around the base of his cock and Jim groaned when the boy pulled him free. His hands explored along Jim's length, apparently deciding how he was going to do this. The touch was dry until Mycroft's tongue licked at the length of his shaft and figured out that he was going to have to use his saliva to ease the friction. He was moving as quickly as he could without knowing what he was doing. The only direct reference he had was the one Jim had given him last night. But Jim's hands found their way into his hair, mussing it up until Jim liked the way it looked before urging his head down. Jim gave a long, pleasured sigh when the boy's lips closed around the head of his cock. 

Mycroft's eyebrows drew together as he concentrated. Much as he was pretending otherwise, the boy was intimidated. Everything looked so much bigger up close. Mycroft opened his mouth as much as he could to take Jim in, balking a bit at the unfamiliar bitter taste and musk. He quickly figured out what he needed to do to keep his teeth from catching on Jim's skin, but Mycroft discovered that he could hardly take very much of the other man's length at all; too far in and his throat started closing up, leaving him coughing.

A dribble of saliva escaped his lips. Mycroft made use of it, coating one hand and wrapping it around the remaining length of Jim's cock. He began to move, his hand sliding with his mouth as he did his best to suck the older man off. 

Jim smiling fondly down at him and the way he chuckled softly made it seem that he appreciated the show, even though Mycroft was not very skilled. Still, he swallowed and breathed deeply, and soon moans were hitching in his throat and his hands were tightening in the boy's hair. Mycroft was trying to speed things up, but Jim forced him to slow down. He could take control of the boy's head when he wanted to, but not his fist, and so it was a constant battle. 

Finally, as Jim's breath began to quicken and his hips began quick, shallow thrusting motions, he pulled the boy free entirely. Jim gasped, holding Mycroft by his hair. Their eyes met, and Jim tucked his hard length back in his trousers while he caught his breath. "We'll finish this later. You can go." 

Mycroft shot him a victorious grin. He wiped the back of his hand over his swollen lips, and then dashed to the door. His hands shook as he fumbled with the handle to the interrogation room. He could only hope that he hadn't missed too much while he'd been down on the floor. Mycroft had heard shouting and moans in the background, but nothing that had told him what Seb had been up to.

The boy slipped inside the room. Thankfully, Timothy appeared to still be alert and in one piece, if very much the worse for wear. Mycroft drifted over to Seb's side.

The blond noticed him right away. There were now three cigarette butts on floor and Timothy’s forearms were a mass of reddened boils. "I see Jim's set you free," Sebastian said in English. His tone was friendly in spite of the chiding words and the situation, but there was also a knowing depth to it, and when Mycroft looked in his eyes, he could see Seb’s pupils were heavily dilated. The single, harsh spotlight in the room might have been one explanation, but it was doubtful. "Come here," Seb said, motioning with one hand. It was covered with bits of ash and blood. 

Timothy’s eyes followed Mycroft blearily. He didn't look like he could comprehend why a boy was there, or whether he was hallucinating. The change in Seb's language and tone must have brought him out of the daze of pain and despair just enough for confusion to set in. 

Seb reached down when Mycroft was close enough and picked up the small green canister. It was a blow torch. 

Mycroft moved as if he were in a dream, gaze sliding over the prisoner's injuries and dull expression, lingering on Seb's stained hand, and finally settling on the tool Seb had selected. Delight writ itself across his features as he recognized the object. "I've never used fire for this before," he whispered. His fingers stroked over the cool metal of the canister with awe. "It was too risky. It might have set part of the woods on fire, or put a smell on my clothes that I would have trouble washing out."

Timothy shifted, and the movement caught Mycroft's eye. "...can he understand English?" Mycroft asked.

Sebastian nodded. "Yep. He's from…," he paused to think and when he couldn't remember looked back up to the man, "Where the hell are you from again?" No answer but labored breathing and dazed silence came. "American, anyway. Living between Cairo and Mumbai for the past decade, but he can understand you perfectly." 

Confused as he was, Timothy's hopes didn't seem to rise with the addition of Mycroft's presence. Perhaps it was because the boy was too calm, or the way Sebastian was holding the torch for him to inspect, but he watched Mycroft with fear. 

"Wh-who are you?" his voice rasped, shaky from the pain and switching to a language he wasn't used to any longer. 

Mycroft's smile was nightmarish, something from a horror movie featuring demonic children - it was a bit too wide and smug, eyes glittering with amusement and a sort of knowledge that no boy should possess. "That doesn't really matter, does it?" He looked back towards Sebastian. "...am I allowed to do whatever I want? Or were you going to teach me?" Mycroft was acutely aware of the assortment of tools spread out from Seb's bag, even if he hadn't gotten a chance to get a good look at them yet.

"You can do whatever you want, but I'll stop you if you come too close to killing him by accident." Seb leaned in and when they were cheek to cheek, said softly into the boy's ear, "Jim thought you might like to do something special in the end. You said something about 'taking people apart' and I think he took you literally." Seb pulled back a hair and blue eyes glanced suggestively to a low standing metal table, roughly six feet long, in the corner of the room. 

As if on cue, the door between rooms gave a creak and Jim stepped into its threshold. He leaned against the frame with his hands in his pockets and gave Mycroft the most unnerving smile, like he had offered the boy a birthday present. 

And he _had_. Mycroft met Jim's gaze and his eyes filled with fragile emotion. Nobody had ever known before, understood, much less _helped him_ fulfill his desires. Mycroft came back to himself with a deep breath and touched Sebastian's chest, waiting until the bodyguard moved back a step so that he could get at the assortment of toys Seb had brought.

He decided to start with a classic, picking up a pair of simple pliers. There wouldn't be a risk of getting carried away and accidentally killing Timothy with a de-nailing. Mycroft knelt on the floor for the second time that day, seizing hold of the prisoner's left hand and ignoring the way he squirmed. "Struggling is just going to make it worse for you, luv," Mycroft chided gently. The pliers closed and he yanked his arm back, prompting a cry of pain from Timothy.

Sebastian moved to watch with Jim. Together they stood at the door like silent guardians, their gazes appreciative, if in slightly different ways. If Seb felt any loss over relinquishing his fun over to Mycroft, he didn't show it. Tonight, this was all about the boy. And Jim. It was always about what Jim wanted. He usually got it, too. 

Timothy didn't attempt to talk to Mycroft after that, not really. But the depth of his despair was newly redoubled. It bubbled up inside him more easily than when he'd faced Sebastian. Mycroft, a boy, a _child_ , taking the place of his torturer brought on an entirely new level of helplessness. 

Jim picked up on that and latched onto it ferociously. "Look at that, Mycroft," he said in a low whisper. Everyone in the room still heard him. "Look at the way your presence alone, your _willing and eager participation_ in his pain is destroying him." Jim stepped forward, walking slowly to Mycroft's side and then crouching down just beyond his reach. "Not even a child will spare you. Isn't that _sad_." Jim's face was a mocking pout, his voice lilting in a pathetic kind of sympathy. 

Both of Timothy’s hands were bleeding from the tips of his fingers now. Mycroft watched the man's trembling with fascination, following the line of his body up to the despair welling up in his eyes like tears. Mycroft stroked the back of his hand down one wet cheek, his own face serene but for the blackness in his eyes that gave away how much he was enjoying this. "Sebastian, can you help me tip the chair over? I've heard that there are a number of nerve endings in the feet." 

Mycroft waited until the bodyguard had left his post in the doorway and assisted him, regarding his living palette with a critical eye. Shoes and socks were stripped away, and a quick exploration helped locate where the spaces were in between the bones. Mycroft had located an awl among Sebastian's tools and began to have fun locating nerve clusters, smiling every time he hit his mark and Timothy gave another tired, hoarse scream. "I think we should try the torch after this."

Even when he paused, the man didn't stop sobbing. It only became louder every time Mycroft moved in. Fear welled in him as much as the pain. Fear of greater pain. Of never-ending pain. Of death. In those long, excruciating minutes, Mycroft became death. Just like Jim was death. Just like Sebastian was. But for Mycroft, it was all focused on this one man. Were he a religious man, the child could have been God. In his eyes, Mycroft's whims were his existence, and Mycroft's hands were his end. 

The boy stretched out the minutes as long as he could. He had a good instinct for this sort of work - he was able to quickly puzzle out some of the uses for the more puzzling pieces of equipment, and Seb only had to step in once to stop Mycroft from dealing a puncture wound that would have had the man quickly dying of internal bleeding. Eventually Timothy began to tire, blood loss and shock making his reactions more sluggish and, thus, disappointing. Even the sounds he made were getting too soft, echoes from a raw and ravaged throat.

Mycroft rocked back on his heels and looked at Jim and Seb in expectation. He looked... _sated_ , somehow, as if he'd just indulged in a feast. "I'm ready for the last bit, I think. He's starting to get boring."

Jim's eyes were gleaming like mad. "Very good. Seb?" 

Sebastian went to work quickly. He took a syringe from the workstation and checked it for air before moving to Timothy. "This'll put him out for a while. It's a heavy sedative, but he'll come out of it quickly." His gaze met Mycroft's doubtful one just before he sank the needle into the man's neck. "Trust me. We'll need it to open the chest or he'll die of shock." 

Once he saw the look of recognition in Mycroft's eyes, Seb winked. He wheeled the table into the middle of the room and undid the man's restraints. Sebastian hefted the limp body into his arms before laying it on the table which was, fortunately, low enough for Mycroft to lean over easily, even with the bulk of an aging man atop its surface. 

Jim approached him from behind, laying his hands over Mycroft's shoulders while Seb took a handheld saw from the equipment table and tested it. 

"Don't you need a lot of arm strength to cut through bone with a regular saw?" Mycroft's nose wrinkled in displeasure; he supposed it wasn't that bad to watch at this point. Given the nature of Jim's line of work, other opportunities would come up. "I think I'm going to need your help with this part. I'm not going to be able to press hard enough." 

Jim's hands were stroking over his shoulders, one part soothing, one part possessive. Mycroft leaned back against him, tilting his head up so he could give Jim a grateful smile. "Nobody's ever given me anything like this before."

Jim tilted his head and fondly brushed the hair from Mycroft's forehead. "You're going to have a lot of firsts with me."

Sebastian passed them with a knowing smile. He seemed to have warmed up to Jim's advances on Mycroft. Had he not, he would have likely been treating the boy with the same coldness he presented to their victim. He strapped the man's arms and legs to the sides of the table and removed the ribbons of his shirt. Timothy was breathing slowly, but steadily. When Seb moved to make the first cut, parting the skin over the sternum where there was no muscle tissue between it and the bone, Jim walked Mycroft forward to watch. Once he'd reached the man's navel, Seb created two new incisions running from the top of the first to the ball of each arm. He then set the saw flat over the man's sternum and gave a great pull so that it began to cut lengthwise through the bone. 

The boy watched with morbid fascination. Coil after coil of tension settled into his frame until Jim could feel it in the small body beneath his hands. Mycroft had never had things get this bloody and intense before. Torment had been limited to the simple and the low-risk, things that wouldn't leave messy evidence behind on his person and that killed quickly before repeated animal cries brought unwanted attention. The stark whiteness of bone was a shock against a background of abused and bleeding tissue.

Seb worked the saw until the man's sternum finally gave way and ribs uncurled like a gristly pair of wings. Mycroft rose up on the balls of his feet and peered in. Curiosity was painted across his features as he took in the amount of organs packed in a tight space, their odd colors and shapes. They all could see the man's heart beating steadily. Mycroft licked his lips, tempted to touch it and feel it contracting in his hand. "Organs are weird looking."

Jim burst into giggles behind him. Even Seb gave him a wry smile before he placed a metal clamp at the fracture of the ribs, spreading them farther apart for better access. 

Jim's eyes surveyed the organs, noting the rate of his breathing and his pulse. "He'll wake up soon," he said, bending to the boy's ear. Pressed like this to his back, he could feel that Jim was still hard. "You can do whatever you like." 

"Shouldn't I wear gloves or something? What if he's got weird diseases?" The open, bloody cavity was reminding him of the movie he'd watched back in 221B - how one wrong drop of infected body fluids caused madness and death. "And the stomach is full of acid. I don't really want him burning my fingers or infecting me."

It was a completely irrational fear, especially as he was already covered with spatter and grime from his experimental foray into torture, but paranoia had taken hold again. Mycroft was half-expecting Timothy to try to bite him instead of scream when he woke up.

"Bit late for that." Jim eyed his hands. "Besides, his last medical record gave him a clean bill of health. It wouldn't do not to check up on these things." When Jim leaned over the man in his tailored suit and sleek hair, he looked so out of place. Jim was pristine. Out of all of them, he was the only one who hadn't gotten sweat or blood on his hands, but he wasn't shy about getting close. "The heart, I think, looks _lively_ doesn't it? Once the sedative begins to wear away, he'll feel everything you do. Sensation in the nerve endings returns before full muscle mobility. He'll be sluggish when he comes out of it. Watch his eyes to know what he feels and what he doesn't." 

"Just _please_ don't open the stomach," Sebastian whined. "That's a whole new level of stench right there."

"Ok, ok, fine." Mycroft's lower lip jutted out into a pout, but he went to the other table to get a small scalpel and a forceps. He moved quickly, not wanting to miss the moment when Timothy woke up. He rolled up his ruined sleeves and began figuring out what he wanted to explore first.

The man's heartbeat quickened as he began to stir, prompting Mycroft to glance up. Timothy's eyes opened slowly, weighted down by the drugs, but he became more alert when Mycroft touched his heart. Timothy's gaze widened in alarm as his brain registered unusual pressure where nothing should have been touching him and adrenaline kicked in. "Oh, look. He _can_ feel it," Mycroft whispered. Such power was making him dizzy, holding the man's life force in his hands.

"I'm having trouble seeing things with your liver, so I'm afraid I need to get rid of it. You won't miss it for long, though." It was uncertain whether Timothy felt the cutting blade or if he was merely reacting to Mycroft's words. The boy, for his part, seemed more interested in the man's facial expressions than the physical bits inside him. Organs felt pain, but didn't have a lot of reactions. He showed the man his own liver, then carefully unlooped his bowels without puncturing them, putting on a gristly display of the victim's own body parts. 

Timothy was quickly numb with horror and going into shock. Mycroft could sense the shift in his mood, and his enthusiasm quickly receded. "It's ok," he reassured the man. "I'm done now. You'll get to rest in a second." He glanced up at Seb and Jim and, not seeing any immediate disapproval, flicked his knife through the surrounding veins and tissue. It was a struggle to get the slippery, rebellious muscle out of a cavity rapidly filling with blood, but Mycroft managed to get his heart free.

Jim's lips spread, watching the organ rise out of the man's chest in Mycroft's hand. It was heavy and filled with blood that ran down his forearm. 

The man's eyes widened with horror. His lips slackened. And then the expression stilled on his face. He was dead. 

When it was over, Jim advanced on the boy. His mask of calm was slipping away, revealing the excitement that had been welling under its surface since he'd let Mycroft leave the observation room. He stopped only centimeters from the boy's face. "Now, put that down and go wash your hands so I can fuck you." 

Mycroft made to obey, then hesitated, gaze settling on the still corpse. Unease filtered into his eyes. "Um, first we need to decapitate him. I don't want him coming after me later for revenge." Mycroft could see Jim and Seb's confusion for a split second before they both figured out what he was thinking. Mycroft blushed, feeling ashamed and staring at his feet. He didn't want to see their amusement. As far as he was concerned, it _wasn't_ a silly request. "Please? I won't sleep well otherwise."

"You are a _strange_ kid," Sebastian said, "but ok." He picked up the bone cutter and began sawing into the man's throat.

Jim lifted his chin. The man wore a wry half smile, but it was one that reached his eyes. "Go. There's a sink at the end of the hall. I'll be waiting when you get back." 

The heavy thud of the head slumping free on the table broke the silence that followed. 

Mycroft nodded and set the heart beside the now-headless body, stripping off his blood-soaked shirt for disposal and dropping it on the floor before going in search of the sink. He made a mental note to remember to bring protective gear and a change of clothes in the future if he got a bit of warning; everything was even messier than he'd expected. Still, the experience had been well worth the cost.


	7. Chapter 7

After a good deal of scrubbing and rinsing, Mycroft finally got most of the blood off of him, including what had gotten under his fingernails. His trousers had a few stain spots, but Mycroft figured it wouldn't matter. Jim would probably get him replacement clothing anyways.

Jim was waiting for him in the observation room when he returned. The man sat cross legged and leaning back in one of the chairs. Beside him, on the table, was a bottle of lubricant. 

On the other side of the glass, Seb was cleaning. He was doing so in a hurried, jerky fashion, and didn't look very happy about it at all. 

"That's much better," Jim said, his eyes raking a path down Mycroft's bare chest and back up again. 

Mycroft grinned and darted forward, throwing his arms around Jim's neck in a show of affection and gratitude. "Thank you," he breathed. Jim's skin was soft and warm, slightly scratchy with stubble but pleasantly alive. Predator, not prey. Someone more like him. "That was amazing."

Jim took hold of his hips and lifted Mycroft into his lap. Warm thighs wrapped around his waist. Jim pulled his head back and looked into his eyes. "I had a feeling you'd think so. Who'd have ever thought that dear Mycroft would have such a sadistic streak?" Jim was smiling. Mycroft had both surprised him and impressed him. Not with technique or bravado, but simply by being who he was and what he was, and perhaps Jim saw the likeness between them that way. Jim had been aware of certain similarities when Mycroft had been grown and leading his previous life, but they were irrelevant due to the path he had chosen and the one Jim had. 

Jim stroked the side of his cheek before capturing the boy's lips with a kiss. 

Mycroft melted against Jim, kissing him back and reveling in the larger hands holding him in place. Part of him was aware of the possibility that Jim was just using him - his paranoia extended to more than just security concerns - but Jim had cracked him open and given him something he hadn't known he'd craved so badly. It was _acceptance_. Jim had seen bits of who he was at the core and instead of pushing him away or trying to hurt him, the older man had pulled him closer.

It was a marked difference from his short time with Sherlock and John, with all the uncertainty and fear and carefully presented facades so no one would see too deeply. "I guess I did a good job of hiding it, huh."

"You did." Jim's mouth brushed the corner of his. "Always so carefully controlled. I knew you _wanted_ to hurt me, yesss," Jim laughed, "I could see the bloodlust in your eyes, but since you _couldn't_ , I misinterpreted it. Your frustration replaced it too quickly, and then you tamped down even that under that cold exterior. I used to call you the Ice Man, because that's the only time I ever got under your skin." Jim's giggles were like tinkling bells in his throat. He wasn't mocking the memory, but delighting in the revelations this new Mycroft had given him. 

Mycroft kissed Jim's throat, feeling the man's laughter beneath his lips. He wondered, ever so briefly, what it would be like to bite him, then quickly discarded the thought. Even if he was gentle, Jim didn't strike Mycroft as the kind of person who appreciated being on both sides of the equation, so to speak. "Sherlock knew, somehow... so I think my family probably found out at once point. I would've been given a choice to hide completely and never indulge again, or get locked up. Or killed, maybe. I'm not the only person in the family to ever be this way, so I always had to be extra careful."

"Ah, the great Holmes family," Jim mused. "I think it's safe to say I know which one you chose." When Jim looked down at Mycroft again, he felt a subtle tension in the boy. Those fears had been very real. "But you're not under their thumb anymore. And the ones who mattered are long gone." Fingers massaged the back of Mycroft's neck. Jim's smile turned a little sinister. "I always wanted a playmate growing up." His cool digits trailed down Mycroft's bare spine. 

"For finding interesting things to do, or for doing interesting things to?" Mycroft teased back. He was still uncertain of where he stood with Jim's physical attraction to him, testing the waters but slowly gaining a bit of confidence. "What would you have wanted, if you'd been able to have what you wished for?"

There was silence before Jim pulled back. He regarded Mycroft with half lidded eyes and a faraway expression before he returned to the present, and so when he looked the boy up and down and said, "You," it seemed that Jim had let his guard down for the briefest moment. It was back up in the next, but more malleable than it had been before. Jim’s lips curled in a fraction of a smile. "No one was ever like me, and so…no one could ever _match_ me."

Mycroft nodded solemnly. It was a situation he understood and could empathize with completely. "I guess we're lucky, then. That we found each other _now_." So many twists of fate had conspired to make this meeting happen; one small alteration in the chain of events and they would never had found each other at all. Except as bitter enemies, from what Jim had said. "What do you want to do, now that you _do_ have a playmate?"

Jim's lips curled even wider. "Oh, I think you can imagine what I have in mind." His thumb brushed Mycroft's lower lip, pulling it down before letting go and trailing over his chest. "And I have been waiting _so_ long…" The digit hit the top of Mycroft's trousers and Jim wasted no time working open the button. "…as much as I enjoyed watching you play." Jim licked and bit his own lips until the boy's trousers were undone and he reached his hand between them. 

Mycroft nearly fell backward when he arched into the touch, caught when Jim hooked an arm around him. His small cock was still hard from the fun he'd had in the interrogation room. He watched Jim with half-lidded eyes, noting the hunger in Jim's gaze and the wicked lines of his smile. He was still afraid, just a little bit. If he dug deep inside himself and was honest, the fear was part of the attraction. 

Jim stroked him like that until the boy was shivering and trying to get more. The angle wasn't the best, not with Mycroft's trousers straining over his hips and his thighs spread wide around Jim. Jim pushed him to stand and pulled the trousers down completely. Once Mycroft was free of them, Jim kissed his mouth and stroked his hands up and down the pale, pink skin from his shoulders to the backs of his thighs and then back up again. "Go lock the door," he whispered with a devilish mischief in his eye. 

Mycroft's quizzical look quickly melted away as he realized what Jim was doing. He padded across the room to comply. "Won't he get mad?" Mycroft asked as the silver bolt slid home. From what he'd seen in the viewing window, Sebastian was still unhappily cleaning up the room, but he'd been nearly done. Another glance into the other room confirmed as much when Mycroft returned to Jim's side. "Or is he used to you playing pranks on him?"

"Oh, he's used to it. But yes, he'll be very, very upset," Jim smiled cheekily. He settled Mycroft into his lap again. "He can be fun when he's angry, but right now…I only want you in here." He leaned back and pulled Mycroft down onto him. Their mouths collided and Jim swelled through his trousers underneath the heat of the boy's bare arse. Mycroft had control of the kiss like this. From this position, he even had most of the control of their hips rocking together.

Mycroft didn't lack for enthusiasm. His crush on his two captors had been developing at a breakneck pace, and he was at the tender age where it was flattering and new just to be wanted. He was still a bit sore from the previous night, but the delicious friction that was being generated as he ground against Jim was making that fact seem less important every second that went by. More so, even, in that he had the illusion of control. Mycroft's hand darted between them to the hardness hidden in Jim's trousers. He felt... powerful, in a way. Jim was more experienced, more skilled, and yet Mycroft was the focus of his desire. Even if he _wasn't_ close to an equal yet.

Jim groaned, the sound trailing off in a whine in the end. His hands squeezed Mycroft's hips and then he was reaching for the bottle on the table. He'd been worked up for so long, they both had, that he was desperate now. When his fingers were coated with liquid, he reached underneath the boy with one hand and eased his hips in place with the other. Jim's finger breached him slowly, careful in spite of their hurry. 

Mycroft knew a bit more what to expect this time. He still bit his lip, grunting at the coldness of the liquid and the uncomfortable burn of stretching muscles, but he knew that it would ease up as he relaxed. And that he’d be rewarded with pleasure once he did. He forced himself to breathe slowly and focus on something else. Kissing Jim turned out to be a great distraction. Teasing Jim by sliding his hand over the head of his cock also seemed to do the trick; Mycroft smiled at the sounds it coaxed out of the older man.

On the other hand, it only encouraged Jim to move more quickly. It wasn't long until the second finger slipped inside him and both began working him open together. Just before Jim added the third, he deliberately stroked the sweet spot inside Mycroft, as though reminding him of the pleasure to be had as soon as he rode out the uncomfortable stretch. When all three were inside the boy, Jim flattened his free hand over his trembling back. He helped ease Mycroft's hips down onto his hand with each stroke. 

Mycroft was breathing in short gasps by that point, the world narrowed down to the ecstasy that was to come if he could only bear the discomfort for a little while. The teasing stroke against his prostate had him sliding eagerly against Jim's fingers, silently entreating his body to relax and stop fighting. After a few moments Jim must have decided he was stretched enough - his hand retreated. 

Jim unfastened his trousers and shoved them down. He poured more lube onto himself and pulled a condom from his pocket. He must have slipped the supplies into Sebastian's duffel bags sometime that day, as they hadn't been there during Mycroft's previous search of his person. When he was ready, he lifted the boy's hips up, Mycroft's knees supporting his weight on the chair, and guided him over the head of his cock. Jim licked his lips and eased him down. He was met with tight resistance, but with a slow and steady push, Mycroft sank onto him. 

Mycroft cried out softly as Jim pulled him down, down until they were flush against each other. The sensation of being filled was still so strange, but Mycroft was willing to trust Jim's word that he'd get used to it. Jim, who'd gained a wild edge to his features again, a wolf hiding in a human skin and waiting to devour him in as many ways as his clever mind could devise. Mycroft flinched as Jim began thrusting slowly... and then the older man tilted Mycroft's hips and pleasure washed through him.

In this position, Mycroft was sinking in deeply. His own weight drove him down and they were almost perpendicular. It probably wasn't the most comfortable position for Jim, as the chairs had not been designed for this, but his neck tipped back over the hard metal arch anyway and a throaty moan escaped his mouth. Jim widened his legs on the floor and used the extra leverage to thrust up as much as he could. 

Mycroft was a sight staring down at him. His lips were reddened and parted, freckles awash over his cheeks, and hair falling in tangles around his eyes as he bent forward. Jim grit his teeth together and reached up to Mycroft's cheek, fingers curling around the back of his neck to keep him there. 

Mycroft hung on desperately, fingers digging into Jim's arms as he moved. Jim's thrusts and gravity set the rhythm, requiring little effort on Mycroft's part. Jim's cock brushed against that sensitive spot inside him nearly every time, overwhelming to the point that the pleasure almost became painful. He shuddered in Jim's grip. "I... can't..." Mycroft shifted and tried to adjust the angle; it was too much.

Pounding came from the other side of the door. Sebastian's angry voice followed. " _Jim!_ What the _fuck_? Open the door!" The handle rattled. 

Jim threw his head back and _laughed_. He laughed so hard that Seb surely heard him from the other side. It was likely that Seb could hear quite a lot, with Mycroft's hitching cries. Jim finally took pity on him and lifted him from the chair. His arms wrapped around the boy's back and when he rose, Mycroft's legs had to hook around the small of his back to hang on. Jim was grinning devilishly as he pressed the boy up against the glass. 

Mycroft had registered Seb's angry yelling with some alarm, more so once Jim manhandled him across the room to fuck him against the observation window. Mycroft clung to Jim, wondering just how strong the glass was - whether Seb would be able to break through, whether he could see anything from the other side. Didn't things pressed against one-way glass become visible on the other side?

When Mycroft wrapped his arms around Jim's neck and tried to lean away from the glass, Jim held him with one arm and pressed his other hand against it for support. Seb would have only been able to see a shadow of them, wherever they came into contact, but he had apparently noticed. 

"Jim, you little _fuck!_ " And Seb's cursing only devolved from there, becoming more and more colorful the harder he pounded on the door. 

Meanwhile, Jim ignored him completely. He buried his face in Mycroft's neck and rutted into him with ever quickening thrusts. 

Mycroft was rapidly losing the ability to think, pinned between Jim and the window and fucked senseless. Jim's mouth was on his neck, his arm around his waist, pounding into him and hitting his mark every time. Instead of experiencing relief from his torment, Jim had merely increased it by picking up the pace. Mycroft writhed helplessly, toes curling in midair, head hitting the glass every time Jim made a particularly rough thrust. He was close, so very close, hanging on the edge of orgasm. A whining keen escaped his throat - he was past words and unable to articulate what he needed.

Finally, Jim's other hand came down on him. He was pressed more firmly into the mirror, but Jim was wrapping his fingers around Mycroft's cock and stroking back and forth with quick pulls. He'd throw the boy off every once in a while, stopping just to press deliciously hard against him while his hips kept moving and then picking the rhythm right back up again. 

Something was happening to the door, but neither of them was paying it any attention. 

Jim was keeping him right on the edge, changing the rhythm or angle or stilling his hand every time he felt Mycroft tighten around him. It was deliberate, no doubt about that; Jim's mouth was set with a feral grin. He was enjoying watching Mycroft fall apart. It took all of the boy's concentration to pull himself together enough to speak. "Jim... please, please Jim, pleasepleaseplease..." The mantra turned into unintelligible begging, barely more than a whisper.

Finally, Jim gave in. He curled his fingers around the boy's cock and matched pace with his thrusts and pulled Mycroft hard against him. In a daze of lust, Jim's mouth latched onto his neck, just beneath his ear, and bit down. It wasn't enough to break skin by any means, but it was sharp and bordering on painful. He was nearly at the edge himself, lost in Mycroft like he were a drug. 

Mycroft arched and bucked against Jim, his entire diaphragm tensing around the older man's cock as he orgasmed. The boy had lost track of everything but Jim - in him and around him, fucking and caressing and biting and stripping the breath from his lungs in a youthful cry. 

Jim followed quickly after that. He flattened Mycroft to the wall and gasped a cry into his ear, and they hung like that as the sensation washed through Jim. For once, his cleverly controlled features slackened and opened up to the bright burst of pleasure inside him. He sank to the floor slowly, dragging Mycroft down with him against the glass until his knees hit the tile. 

He was gasping against the boy's neck with the door burst open and Seb came storming through. He saw them on the ground and made straight for Jim. 

Mycroft had recovered just enough to have regained some of his senses. He heard the crash of metal and heavy footsteps, angry huffs of breath, and remembered Sebastian right as he came back into view. Mycroft's features tightened in fear as the bodyguard stalked towards Jim and, by extension, him. He ducked against Jim, using him a shield.

Seb’s fist clenched around Jim's shirt and tie, and it turned out that he had no intentions of going after Mycroft because he pulled Jim from his arms and dragged the man to his feet, ignoring the boy on the floor. 

"You’re _trying_ to piss me off, _is that it_?" Seb shouted in his face, jerking Jim back and forth, but the little criminal was grinning through it all. Laughter bubbled up from his chest even when Seb crouched over him in a blatant show of intimidation, their faces millimeters apart. His fury only seemed to amuse Jim more. 

"All I wanted was a little _privacy_ , Seb," Jim practically sang. "I thought you'd understand." 

The bodyguard's face turned red and contorted in a snarl. " _Fuck you._ And fuck your _privacy_. You make me watch the two of you mooning over each other all day, you walk around in front of me with a hard-on in the middle of a _fucking interrogation_ , and then you expect me _listen_ to you while I'm locked on the other side of that _fucking window?_ " He slammed Jim down on the table, but it didn't stop the man's laughter. Somehow, Jim was enjoying this. _"Fuck. You._ " Seb hissed, and began undoing his belt. 

Mycroft had watched the exchange with wide eyes, scrambling backwards into a corner as soon as Seb had pulled Jim off of him. He curled around himself, naked and shivering. Seb and Jim had a history, that much was obvious, but Mycroft had no idea how far that history extended and what it entailed. Every time he'd seen Seb looking at his employer before, Jim had purposefully ignored him, implying that there wasn't anything more to their relationship beyond the boss-henchman dynamic... if more intense than usual.

Now, though... Mycroft was beginning to wonder as he watched Seb manhandle Jim and unbuckle his belt.

Once Seb had it open and his zipper down, he stroked himself once and pulled Jim's trousers down, discarding the condom as well. He spared only another moment for the bottle of lube. 

Unbelievably, it seemed Jim was going to let this happen. He kicked off his shoe and pulled his ankle free of the trouser leg so that he could spread his legs wider for Sebastian. Seb didn't bother preparing him, and he had no condom. Only a good amount of lube eased the way as he held Jim down and pushed into him. The little criminal's back arced off the table as Seb sank deeper. His mouth fell open in a silent cry, and as Seb began to move, Jim's eyes, upside down, met Mycroft's. When he smiled, it was the devil smiling down at the boy. 

Mycroft stared back in horror. Something about their violent coupling disturbed him, enough that he had to consciously fight against the urge to flee the room. He'd held a man's heart before his eyes not even an hour ago and watched the life bleed out of him without a twinge of disgust, but this was turning his stomach.

Mycroft turned his gaze to the floor. He couldn't look at Jim right now, not like this. He found his pants and trousers where they'd been discarded and pulled them on as quietly as he was able. Slowly, he began inching towards the door.

There was a flash of movement from the table, quick and violent and then everything stopped. The only sound left was Seb's breath hitching in his throat and then even that died. 

Jim had risen off the table, one leg locked around Seb's back and holding him still. The little criminal had a knife pressed firmly to the man's throat and was looking for all world very, _very_ pleased with himself. His blatant madness wasn't gone, but it had been subdued just enough under a soft, satisfied smile and black eyes. 

Sebastian's anger had left him, but the tension in his frame hadn't. The tables had turned. 

Mycroft froze, still halfway to the door. Jim was back in control - maybe he had _always been_ in control - but an uneasy feeling still coiled inside the boy. Where Sebastian had been content to ignore Mycroft's presence, or lack thereof, Jim wouldn't fail to take notice. Mycroft steeled himself and looked up, still ready to bolt for the door and wait out in the hallway if need be.

Jim raised his brows at Sebastian. His head cocked, more like an amused tick. "You can't figure out if I'd really do it or not, can you?" he whispered in sympathy. Jim released Seb's wrist to stroke the back of his knuckles against the man's temple. " _Poor thing._ Oh, Seb. You know how I much I need you, how much I appreciate you, how much I looooove you, even." The smile broke to reveal Jim's sharp teeth. Seb swallowed, uneasy. "But yes, I would kill you in a _heartbeat_. But I did promise you a reward for indulging me earlier, did I not?" and suddenly, Jim was soft again, calm. He pushed with the knife and edged Seb back until Jim could sit up fully. He tilted his head from side to side, looking more like a serpent than a man. "I won't break my promise, and you have been so patient. So…on your knees." The knife pressed him down and Sebastian went with it until he hit the floor, looking properly cowed. Jim changed his grip on the knife so he could hold the back of Seb's neck, and it was no longer as great a threat. "Well?"

Seb leaned forward and took hold of Jim's cock, still fully hard even after the ordeal, and began to suck. Black eyes closed for a moment. His feet planted on the ground, but still Jim leaned heavily back into the table. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at Mycroft again and smiled. 

Mycroft bolted. His hands scrabbled at the door handle and he couldn't get out through the open portal quick enough. He paused in the hallway, quickly running over the possibilities in his mind before heading to the loo. He couldn't bear to wait outside the door, not when he'd hear things. Neither could he leave the building - it would just make Jim angry, and where was he going to go? He was in another country, without papers, unable to even speak the language.

Mycroft went to one of the sinks and turned on the cold water tap. He washed the bitter taste out of his mouth and splashed water on his face, trying to lose the sick feeling in his stomach. 

He couldn't quite pin down exactly what had upset him at the beginning, but he knew what had upset him at the end. As much as he'd known it was true on some level, safety was an illusion. Both men would kill him in a heartbeat, just like Jim had said. He could end up on a table looking at his own heart tomorrow.

A goodly amount of time passed before either of the men left the room. Jim's clothing was perfectly back in place, suit smooth and fastened with only a few marks of dampness on the trouser legs. Sebastian stepped out a moment later, dressed as well and looking calm and satisfied compared to how he’d previously been. It was Jim who made his way to loo at the end of the hall, leaving Seb to watch from the door. 

The man must have known something was wrong when he entered the room because he bent, nonthreatening, when he handed Mycroft a spare shirt. "Seb was thoughtful enough to pack this for you," was what he said, but his eyes were asking a different question. _What's wrong?_

Mycroft accepted the garment and mechanically put it on. He was carefully, so carefully blank, grey eyes shuttered and impassive. It was a more youthful version of the Mycroft Jim had first known, withdrawn into his armor until the world couldn't touch him. "It was kind of him to think of me. I'll have to remember to thank him later."

Thin cracks appeared when Jim reached a hand out to touch him. The boy moved back quickly and Jim's fingers only touched air. Mycroft still didn't look frightened or upset, but his shying away framed the illusion as the lie it was. Something was wrong.

Jim was sinking. He was so still that it seemed the world was rising around him before it made sense and his knee hit the floor. His hand lowered, but he didn't pull it back to himself. His brows drew together and his eyes, his powerful, confident, all seeing eyes, searched Mycroft's face and came back with nothing. This was disturbing Jim greatly, seeing the Mycroft he had known in the place of the one he had newly become. Jim's lips parted before he spoke. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I'll be fine." Mycroft's response was automatic. When Jim didn't readily accept this reassurance, he licked his lips and met Jim's gaze. "There aren't any boundaries. I was always used to the idea that there are three kinds of people: predators, prey, and protected. Sebastian went after you, even though you're not prey, and then you went after him, and eventually I'll be left on a table without a head or heart."

Jim's head cocked slowly to the side. Mycroft was slipping from his grasp. 

"Nooo no no _no_ …" Jim's hands came up to the boy's face, cupping it between them and gripping him firmly as Jim stared up at him from the floor. " _You_ are not Sebastian. Whatever gave you such an idea? No… _no_ , not even close. You…you are…you're _me_ ," he whined. Jim's teeth clenched behind closed lips and he looked, to his own surprise, more desperate with each passing second. 

"Why'd you let him _hurt you_ , then?" Mycroft raged suddenly, anger and fear dredged back up to the surface. And jealousy; this wasn't just between Jim and himself, and Sebastian had been permitted something that Mycroft didn't dare attempt for himself. He glared at Jim as if it had been a purposeful, _personal_ affront. "You _let him_."

Jim stilled. A look of realization began to spread across his features. The desperation receded and in its place dawned an open smile. "Oh Mycroft," Jim said softly, breathlessly, "is _that_ what you wanted?" His hands slid down the boy's shoulders to grasp his hands and Jim pulled him closer. "Yes, I let him. Because I'd promised him a reward and because he deserved it, and because thirty seconds is all he'll ever have of me like that. And then he was mine again. He belongs to me, and he can never forget that." Jim pressed his palm to Mycroft’s cheek. The cruel master was gone, but he couldn't shake the edge of madness in his gaze. "That doesn't mean he can have more of me than you do."

Mycroft’s glare was that of a fledgling, rather than the full hawkish look he'd possessed when older. He was doing his best to hold his ground, but it was difficult when Jim was expressing affection again. "Good, but that still means you're sharing." And why should the rules be different if Jim was asserting that they were the same, if Mycroft _was_ him? Mycroft looked at Jim's unmarked skin and felt... _odd_. Like he had when Sherlock had borrowed a favorite toy, or damaged one of his books. Except this was a dangerous possession, one that could hurt him, one he had to touch carefully.

Jim's eyes closed to slits and his chin lifted. His smile was a tease, but there was a depth of knowing beneath it. Jim knew now that Mycroft's sadistic desires extended to him. His anger had been born of jealousy and insecurity, because Jim had not only toyed with Seb's similar desires, he'd threatened the very foundation of their truce and the bodyguard's safety. "Then it'll be a deal," Jim said. "If you can catch me, then I may just let you have me. No tricks." Not like with Seb. But the gleam in Jim's eyes said told him that it would by no means be easy. 

The boy appeared to finally be mollified; his shoulders became less rigid and the sharp lines of anger left his face. He nodded and stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Jim and burrowing against the crook of his neck. For all the cold, untouchable aura his other self had exuded, this Mycroft still had the cravings of the very young: for comforting touch and reassurances, to just be held close and feel loved. "What about Seb?" he murmured.

The bodyguard was watching them with unabashed curiosity from the doorway. Surely he could hear much of what they were saying. His arms were crossed over his chest, but his posture and demeanor were otherwise laid back, leaning against the wall. He did not seem to be angry any longer, nor feel any returned jealousy toward Mycroft, but he was definitely looking at the pair like this was one of the most unusual things he had ever seen Jim do. 

Jim raised his brows. "What about him?"

Mycroft bit his lower lip, and then shook his head. Everything was still too confusing; he had to work out his thoughts before he carelessly voiced anything to Jim. "...nothing. It's... ok, I just need to think about some things." Mycroft glanced up and spotted Sebastian in the doorway, patient and quiet as a statue. Even staring like one.

Mycroft released Jim and forced himself to approach the bodyguard. He wasn't quite certain what the relationship between them was anymore. All of them defied easy categories. "Um... thank you, Sebastian. For showing me how to do things and helping with the difficult bit with the saw. And the shirt."

The man raised a brow. The corner of his lip twitched, appreciating the boy's bravery. "You're welcome," he said, inclining his head just as politely as Mycroft was attempting to be. 

"Good!" Jim exclaimed, "Now let's get the fuck out of here. We've got a body to dump." With a cheeky grin, he was off down the hall and leaving them to catch up. 

Seb gave Mycroft a half smile before he hoisted the duffel over his shoulder. He wheeled out the cart from the locked room, now carrying a heavy black body bag with it, and strolled after Jim. They reached the garage to find that their car and driver were gone, but this surprised neither of the two men. Instead, Seb tossed the tool kit into the remaining jeep and hoisted the dead man in the back. 

Jim's phone chose that moment to go off. A shrill interruption of the Bee Gees was nearly startling in such an environment, but when Seb and Mycroft turned to look at him, Jim just rolled his eyes and stalked off to a corner with it. 

Seb gave a sigh and climbed in anyway. He held out a hand for Mycroft to join him. "Come on. He'll be a minute."

Mycroft had goggled at Jim's ringtone, torn between incredulity and laughter. When Jim wandered away to deal with it in private, Mycroft turned to consider Seb's entreaty. Wary eyes settled on the bodyguard's outstretched hand for a moment before Mycroft accepted. He plopped into a seat that dwarfed his already-small frame and an awkward silence filled the vehicle.

Seb rested his arms over the steering wheel and his gaze landed upon the boy beside him, who seemed to be both trying not to look at him directly and trying not to seem like he was trying not to look. "Hey," he said. It was strange how relaxed he sounded, as though he were comfortable with this. "I'm sorry if I scared you back there. I didn't mean to." 

"I understand why you were angry." And Mycroft did; Jim had admitted he was yanking the man's chain when he'd had Mycroft lock the door and trap him in the room. "It's the rest that I don't get." What the dynamics were between the three of them, whether there were any rules at all beyond whatever Jim decided upon for the moment... and a little voice at the back of Mycroft mind whispered that it would be all too easy for either or both of the men to overpower him should Jim decide he was no longer wanted.

Seb sighed. "Jim knows how to press my buttons. He's been doing it all day. He knows it’s a tease, but he does it anyway. Keeps me at his heels or some shit like that. It's not that he's having sex with _you_ ," Seb clarified, "It's that he's being sexual at _all_. And he's flaunting it." He gave a long sigh and leaned back in the driver's seat. "Let me give you a glimpse into the mind of Jim Moriarty. He likes to play with people. He likes to let them think they have him, and then turn it all back on them in the last minute, just to prove he can. Just to keep them under his thumb. And…I don't know if it's the same with you," Seb admitted. His piercing blue eyes studied the boy as if he were an anomaly. Seb shook his head. "He used to go on about your brother being the only mental match for him left on this earth, but now…he's talking that way about you."  
Mycroft studied Seb in turn, unusually solemn for a boy of twelve. "Sherlock and I are unusual, even for our family. I think he didn't like me before because I'd grown up into someone boring instead of someone fun to play with. It wasn't that I wasn't a match, maybe, but that I didn't play right." 

Seb's words had caught in his mind, their passage leaving ripples across the surface and disturbing the currents underneath. Mycroft bit down on his lower lip. "You like him, but he's never let you really touch him before. He pretended he wasn't interested at all, and then he proved that that wasn't true, and now you're unhappy because he's also rubbing in the fact that he lied and plays with the fact that you like him. Am I right?"

Seb winced a little and that alone told Mycroft what he'd said was true. The man rubbed a hand over his temple in an unconscious effort to ease his discomfort, but he nodded. "Yeah. Basically. I mean, I knew _of_ his previous sexual habits before, but I've never been witness to them. And, well, he's always kind of a flirt, but you could say I didn't think I was his 'type' either." Seb was chewing on something in his mind when he looked at Mycroft again. "I half wonder…if he isn't doing it for you. So I won't be jealous. So I'd protect you…"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. "'m sorry. I really don't want to make you mad at me. Or jealous. And it's not just because I know you could kill me if you wanted to." He clasped his hands together in his lap, white-knuckled. "I like you, a lot. You've done, you _do_ a lot of stuff that I've only dreamed about doing. I'm... kinda jealous, actually," he admitted quietly.

Seb snorted. " _Hey_ ," he said, the pensive stare dissolving into a half smile, "don't think like that. Little does Jim know, I liked you the moment he decided to keep you. You got nothing to worry about. Not from me." The man rolled his eyes. "He's just a paranoid, controlling sunofabitch." He was laughing softly when he glanced at Mycroft again. 

Mycroft smiled back once Seb's attitude lightened. The boy looked distinctively starry-eyed, as if he was sitting with the lead actor from his favorite action movie. "Do... d'you think you could teach me some things, sometime? If Jim says yes? I've always wanted to learn how to shoot." Now more than ever.

"I think we could manage that," Seb grinned wolfishly. It was an open expression, not like Jim's smiles at all, and it said to Mycroft that he truly did enjoy the boy's company. The ex-colonel probably didn't get many opportunities to show off his skills like this, not while working for Jim. 

He was just about to speak again when Jim himself swung around the corner of the door. "Miss me!" He did it so fast he had to catch himself with a hand on the jeep, making both occupants jump in their skin. 

" _Jesus_ Jim." Seb pulled his hand away from the gun at his hip. "You got a death wish?" 

The criminal just grinned, and climbed over his lap to sit next to Mycroft. "Shut up and drive." He kicked up his feet and put an arm around the boy's shoulders. 

Mycroft giggled. He was in much better spirits now that he'd had a chance to talk with both of the men. He snuggled up to Jim in response to the touch. "Jim, I'm glad Seb brought me a new shirt, but could we go get me some _actual_ new clothes? Please? It doesn't have to be right now, but sometime soon. I don't have anything else to wear and it's starting to feel gross."

"Anything you like," Jim said. He had his head tipped back on the cushion, eyes closed and enjoying himself. He would have looked like he were soaking up the sun if it hadn't been pitch black when the garage door opened and they drove out into the night. He had his boy on one side and a man who would do anything for him on the other, whether that man liked it or not. 

Seb smiled wryly at his boss. He wasn't a complete idiot, and he'd known Jim long enough to tell when Jim felt like a king. Seb let the moment last without comment, and once again they took to the roads of the desert. 

Mycroft half-dozed as they drove back towards the outskirts of the city. With the daylight gone, there was little to watch outside the windows. The lights of the city made a stark contrast against the gloom, dividing the night with sharp, bright lines into civilization and wilderness. Mycroft wondered what the nightlife in the city would look like. Every human society had some commonalities, but cultural differences could sometimes be vast. He imagined that the streets of Egypt would have a very different feel from the alleyways of London.

While Mycroft slept, Seb drove with a single mindedness and Jim's eyes gleamed in the light of the dashboard. They could have been statues: Jim frozen in all his glory, his mind racing out ahead of them down hidden paths every kilometer of the drive, and Sebastian with all his focus on the destination ahead. 

When they reached the bottom of Mokattam Hill, Jim nudged the boy awake. "We're heeere," he whispered in a sing song tone. 

Mycroft yawned and straightened up. A quick glance outside the vehicle told him what he needed to know, even without the illumination of street lights. "Oh. Yeah, that's right. I'd forgotten we needed to stop to dump things first," he murmured. Mycroft's back arched as he stretched out muscles that had cramped during the ride. "What do we do to stop him from floating up? Or do the crocodiles take care of it?"

Jim's smile only grew wider. "The garbage will." He took Mycroft's hand and pulled him up. Seb killed the engine and jumped out of the vehicle, going around to the back where he opened the boot. 

From where they were parked, it looked like any other hill and valley, even if Seb had deliberately hidden them behind a mass of scraggly bushes and a rundown building. It was all quite normal, except for a great drop-off to the other side of the shack, where Jim was leading Mycroft. When they reached its edge, that changed drastically. 

"Manshiyat Naser," Jim breathed, "The Garbage City." 

What they looked down upon didn't look like a city at all. It looked like a wasteland, something that once might have been a city but was no longer. The shapes of empty buildings rose out of heaps of rubbish like skeletons of what they once had been. Black holes dotted their empty windows. Here and there a light glowed, signifying that there was indeed life dwelling below, but there was no order to it. Mountains of trash reigned everywhere they looked. The smell wafting up from the city was just as bad. 

Jim's hands clutched Mycroft's shoulders. "Home of the Zabbaleen, the Garbage People...the lepers of Cairo."

Mycroft's nose wrinkled at the stench. "They actually live here? Are they exiled from the main city, and that's why they won't care and won't report anything they find?" It seemed unthinkable. As far as Mycroft understood it, even people in shady areas tended to report crimes unless the authorities were thoroughly corrupt. People wanted to avoid bringing trouble and scrutiny on themselves, but reactions against murder seemed to be a social norm that crossed cultures. "Or will nobody listen to anything they have to say?"

"A little of both…. _If_ they find the body," Jim said. "But the real problem is that it's such a common occurrence. Death is no stranger to this settlement." 

Sebastian started down the side of the hill they stood on, carrying the body slung over one shoulder and a shovel. Jim watched him descend before brushing Mycroft's hair back from his forehead and looking into the boy's eyes. 

"Come." Jim followed with his hands in his pockets. 

Mycroft followed. The trail was rough going, strewn about with debris, some of which shifted as it was stepped on. Falling would be unpleasant and likely result in an injury and a nasty infection. Mycroft wondered if it would even be noticeable that something had been recently buried, after all the trash shifted over the soil. 

Nobody seemed to be out and about - at least, not anywhere close to them. Mycroft was reminded of the post-apocalyptic movies he'd seen and shivered. He closed the distance to Jim, tucking one hand into the loop of the older man's arm. "Are you sure they'll stay away from us? The Garbage People?"

Jim grinned at him wickedly. He seemed to know what the boy was thinking. "They'll leave us alone." 

They walked through the outskirts of the village where the trash was piled so high it was like miniature mountains. Rivers of soiled water and debris flowed through it, and there was no telling how deep they were. This was not the area families resided. It was too far out, and nearly impossible to traverse. 

Sebastian had either been here before, or he'd scoped out a location ahead of time, for he appeared to know where he was heading. Jim followed with his head high and eyes alert, not fearful, but _proud_ as though he were at home. 

Finally, Seb stopped. They'd found a valley in the cliffs of stinking rubbish. It smelled awful, all over, but in this place particularly. When his shovel hit the soft pile at their feet and came away with the first bits of trash, it became clear why. Acidic water oozed and flowed into the hole he'd made. He kept digging. 

"The chemicals will strip it clean," Jim said to the boy. 

Strangely, for someone who'd just had his hands drenched in blood and gore, Mycroft didn't seem to be able to stomach the noxious surroundings. He buried his face against Jim's sleeve, watching out of one eye as Seb dug deeper into the squelching, rancid soil. His skin had taken on a distinctly green tone. It was taking entirely too long for the bodyguard to carve out the necessary hole for the corpse. "Is disposal always this awful?"

Jim drew the boy closer, pressed to his side. He was like a pillar, standing taller than he actually was. He didn't watch Seb. Instead, Jim's eyes surveyed the dark shapes of the settlement beyond, taking its vastness into him and making it his own. His chest rose against Mycroft as though he were filling with it, the sweet decay of desolation and desperation. 

He took the boy up a small hill, away from Seb and where the acid flowed. It eased the onslaught of scents somewhat. "This is as much my home as the finery of England, Mycroft," he said. The way he looked at the place, it should have been beautiful. Up on that little hill, with the view they had, Jim could have been king of the garbage city. 

"I don't like it." In Mycroft’s opinion, there were too many opportunities for something unexpected to happen, something unplanned. The garbage city was completely uncontrolled. While this was advantageous in avoiding the eye and arm of the law, it also meant that they were vulnerable. Seb's hands were full and Jim didn't appear to be wearing a gun holster, overtly or covertly. Mycroft couldn't do much to defend himself. If there was anything or anyone dangerous out there, things could quickly turn sour. 

"No one likes it," Jim said with a dark smile, "until they learn to make it their own." 

It may have seemed prolonged, but Seb was working quickly. He removed the body from its bag and let it soak in the chemical yellow pooling in the hole he'd made, deep now, very deep, and began to cover it once more. When he was finished, he only had to look up at Jim with a nod. Their eyes met and, without words, Jim took Mycroft and they climbed back down to Seb's side. 

"That's the problem. Nobody owns it. It's uncontrolled." Mycroft stayed close to Jim, doing his best not to trip in the attempt. He was feeling particularly grimy at this point, between their surroundings, his need for a shower, and his one set of clothes. "There's probably not even a gang that controls this place, just... anything could happen."

Jim glanced down at Mycroft as they walked. He was grinning like he had a secret. "That's the beauty of it. _Nobody_ controls chaos. Not with all the strength and power in the world, no. You have to _know_ it instead. Learn it, ride it, and then you can use it. Communities in dysfunction, in what appears to be anarchy, whether a city of garbage or a world built entirely online, they all have a _system_. Every time one human being relates to another, a system is created. And that can _always_ be manipulated. Working without structure can give you an advantage." 

"How? There are too many things to pay attention to, and all the probabilities change. You can't stack the deck or know that you're taking the right precautions." To Mycroft, that seemed like a horrifying way to go about things. He’d never feel truly confident and safe in what he were doing, because there were too many cogs working out of right and out of sight, too many dice rolls that he couldn't manipulate.

Jim only smiled. "Yes, you can." They picked their way along the path, if it could be called a path, back through the mountains of unsorted rubbish and around the edge of the occupied area, deserted buildings popping up out of the mountains to one side. "Once you learn a system, even a broken one, you see every side and can therefore influence each. I said it before, but all things change. It is the nature of every structure to go through revolutions, and when they do, it is better not to be at the top. You'll be the first, and last, to go down. It is better to stay hidden, in a system that seems to have no structure. Releasing control and letting the system fall without you is just as necessary as having that control."

Mycroft could understand the logic of staying hidden; it was senseless to take a role in the spotlight. It tended not to lend any more control, and it came with a far steeper price tag in terms of many things, danger included. "I'll agree with some of that," he ventured. "But I don't see how you could have enough influence to do anything with a system like that. Or why you’d want to be somewhere like _here_." Diseased, disgusting, full of rot and stomach-turning miasma.

Jim chuckled with a laugh like tinkling glass. He put his arm around Mycroft's shoulder, amused. "I mustn't forget where you grew up. Just remember, keep friends in low places as well as those in high, and you can go anywhere in the world."

They were nearing the outskirts once more. The cliff upon which they'd parked the jeep was just barely visible in the distance, recognizable only as a black wall. Seb glanced back at them once. His eyes darted over Jim’s arm around Mycroft’s shoulder before he gave a little smile and continued. 

Only a few moments later, the softest rustle came from behind them. The two men continued on, but there was something different in the air. It was a subtle change. 

The rustle came again. A very small, dark shape moved, darting between two piles of trash at Mycroft's side. Eyes as dark and wide as Jim's peered out from behind two tin cans and a heap of plastic bags. They were looking at the boy. 

Mycroft started, body tensed with a fight-or-flight response beneath Jim's hand. He _wanted_ to run. Whatever this was, it had tracked them across the most barren, deserted part of the rubbish wasteland. Mycroft stared back, and a bit of an outline became more apparent as his eyes adjusted to the gloom - it wasn't a scavenger dog or another wild animal, but another human. A kid, even smaller than Mycroft was himself. "...Jim? What do we do?"

Jim paused, following Mycroft's line of sight just before the shape ducked down again. It seemed to be afraid of both adults. Ahead of them, Seb stopped and waited. He didn't appear to be concerned. 

"I think he likes you, Mycroft," Jim teased. When the fear in Mycroft’s wide eyes lessened, Jim softened. He watched the pile of trash the smaller boy hid behind as though he might be able to see through it. "He's following to see what we'll do with you. It's not often two foreigners bring a child here with them, and all return. I'm not the only outsider dropping off their dirty laundry here. Maybe he thinks he can lure you away from us." Jim laughed softly. 

"Do you think he was left here?" That seemed like a sad fate to fall into. It was one thing to be abandoned, but left in a position of relative safety and comfort, where you wouldn't have to worry overmuch about dying from hunger or the elements. It was another to be completely alone where you would have to fend for yourself in every sense of the word. Even the water in this area was foul and unpotable.

Mycroft tried to imagine what it would be like to lose absolutely everyone and be left among the refuse. While he _had_ suddenly lost both parents, he hadn't been left out in the cold. Sherlock was still left. Sherlock, who'd taken him in and started to take care of him. Maybe his brother had already decided he was dead. Maybe he was out in the streets of London, searching. The thought struck Mycroft with a pang of guilt.

"Oh no," Jim said. "He's definitely one of the Zabbaleen. Watch him when he moves into the light. Probably one of the boys who help the men collect rubbish in the city and then haul it back here to be sorted. He's _daring_ , getting this close to us." 

Jim glanced at Seb for a moment, and when the man's lips twitched up, the criminal kicked at the pile of trash, knocking much of it off the top. The little figure darted out and away from them. It was hard to see in the dark, but he definitely wasn't a foreigner to Egypt. 

"Will he tell anyone anything?" Daring wasn't good; it didn't necessarily mean that he'd risk himself with the authorities, but he might sell information to someone he knew was safe. Depending on who the man they'd killed actually _was_ , who he'd had ties to, it might be a liability. Still, neither Sebastian nor Jim seemed all that concerned. The boy's presence was generating detached amusement more than anything else, like stumbling upon a kitten in a back alleyway.

"Nothing that would matter, even if it were investigated. Timothy’s death has been tied up nicely with a cell of international criminals." Jim placed his hand on Mycroft's back and steered the boy to follow at his side again. They joined Seb and walked the rest of the way back to the jeep. It was a steep climb, and Mycroft was only getting dirtier, but at least they'd left the garbage behind. 

Once at the top of the hill, Jim paused to take one last, fond look over the Garbage City. 

"Jim?" Mycroft waited until he had the older man's attention. His small hand tightened around Jim's own. "I don't want to leave, but... do you think I could talk to Sherlock? I wouldn't tell him anything important, just... that I'm ok, I guess. He's probably worried and wondering if I'm dead." If their positions had been swapped, Mycroft knew that he'd be beside himself looking for his younger - now _older_ \- sibling.

Jim's inky eyes slid over him like liquid before Seb started the engine. They climbed inside while the man remained silent. He leaned back in his seat as they took off, pulling the boy against him. "Not unless you're willing to start a firestorm. Sherlock will hunt you down once he knows you're alive. And he'll want to talk to you again. And so will you."

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Jim, expression downcast. "It wouldn't be that hard to outsmart him, would it? To do it in a way he couldn't trace?" For all of Jim's cautions about choosing sides, Mycroft didn't _want_ to have to choose. There had to be a way to play the middle, to have both instead of picking one and destroying the other.

Jim must have been considering the options, but outwardly he was as still as placid water. His eyes didn't move as they stared out at the road ahead of them. Even Seb was silent. He could tune out and make it seem as though Mycroft and Jim were the only two there. "Even your method of communication with him will be an indicator of who has you. And your brother is _clever_." Jim smiled, remembering, but there was a reluctance in him now. Before this had happened to Mycroft, Jim would have jumped at the opportunity, but now…now he seemed to be playing to keep the boy. 

"Alright, not now then." Mycroft’s desire and guilt still gnawed at him, and guilt was an uncomfortable emotion he felt very rarely, but he was willing to let the matter sit for the moment. Perhaps Jim might be more receptive later. Perhaps he'd be able to figure out a way to contact his brother _without_ unnecessary mess and future troubles.

Mycroft sighed. Now that they were in the jeep and putting distance between them and the stench of the Garbage City, all he could smell was Jim's scent beneath his nose.


	8. Chapter 8

The man was content to let Mycroft burrow against his side as they drove. In spite of all they'd done that day, speeding through the night on the back roads of Cairo was a pleasantly exhilarating ride. The windows were cracked and the cool air blowing in heightened the reality of the situation. 

The lights of the city were rapidly drawing near. The buildings rising steadily higher around them. They travelled through Islamic Cairo before they reached downtown, and the two were as different as night and day, but both bustled with life in spite of the late hour. They passed mosques and historic monuments, even the great Citadel in the distance, before transitioning into the modern downtown where hotels stood next to Egyptian architecture. 

All the while, Jim was a warm presence at his side, his fingers stroking unconsciously through Mycroft's hair. 

Mycroft took it all in, but the buildings seemed untouchable despite their closeness. They might as well have been illusions. Jim would not let him walk the streets and ruin the plans he had in store, but perhaps he'd make good on their earlier discussions and Mycroft would be able to see a few things before they left the country. 

Which reminded him. "Now that we have the names that we needed, what's going to happen next?" In his distraction with the euphoria of his first human kill, and everything that followed shortly after, Mycroft hadn't considered what the next phase was going to entail. Even now, it was difficult to think clearly; Jim's caresses and presence were soothing, unwinding a core of tension that Mycroft sometimes didn't realize existed.

"Seb goes to work. We have more people to kill." Jim smiled. "Perhaps while we're out shopping tomorrow. We'll make a day of it." 

Seb grunted in acknowledgement, the first sound he'd made the entire drive. 

"Sebastian here may have an affinity for torture, but his true expertise lies in marksmanship." Jim gave him a toothy grin. The blond man ignored him as they drove into a tight parking structure. After a few turns, he parked next to a silver town car and killed the engine. 

They switched vehicles, leaving the jeep behind and pulling back onto the streets in the car that had been waiting for them, now blending seamlessly with the traffic. 

Mycroft wondered just how far Seb's skill in shooting outstripped his skill in torture. What Mycroft had seen earlier that evening had been impressive, if shortened due to both men letting him take over and experiment once they'd gotten what they needed. 

"What're we going to do for the rest of the night, if everything else is waiting until tomorrow?" Mycroft supposed he could study more, but he'd had plenty of opportunity to do that earlier in the day. "Get dinner and watch a movie?" He was having a difficult time picturing either man as the sort to sit down and enjoy a film or a show on the telly.

Jim was looking at him with a raised brow. "First, let's get you cleaned up…" There was a definite note of anticipation in his tone. "And then, I thought you might enjoy seeing one or two sites in the city. Discreetly." He tipped his head back and rested it against the seat. "Is that what your brother does on his nights off? 'Dinner and a movie'?" Jim did not sound impressed. 

"I don't know what he does. I wasn't around long enough. That's just what we did the one night because I upset John and nobody knew what to do with me, I think. So they let me pick out a horror movie." Mycroft shifted, moving sideways until his legs were compressed against the door and his head was in Jim's lap. He stared up at the older man thoughtfully. "Sherlock was worried I was going to get into stuff. Maybe some of his chemical supplies. John was upset that I had used his laptop to look at porn instead of whatever he thought kids should look at. They just didn't have much to do at their place that they thought was _suitable_ for me. John didn't even want me to watch horror movies, I think, but Sherlock already knew what kind of stuff I like and didn't fight me about it."

Jim looked down at him with blank eyes. "How revoltingly domestic." He sighed. "Your brother has let his life go to that poor, ordinary doctor of his. Such a shame, it is." Jim stroked his fingers over Mycroft's face. "He's only interesting when he's on a case." He spoke as if he were repulsed, but his gaze never left the boy. A spark of excitement was held there, and it was just for him. 

"He has a bunch of interesting books. And a skull," Mycroft added, compelled to defend his brother from Jim's disdain. "Secret hiding places, too, although I didn't have time to look in them. I think he's hiding a lot from John because John's... sensitive. And Sherlock seemed to think that hiding everything he thought was dangerous and having John keep an eye on me would prevent me from going out to catch things, or causing trouble on their computers, or having a bored fit." Mycroft couldn't hold it against him for the last, at least. He did whatever he could to try to avoid those periods where his mind ground against itself until he found a matching pain to override it, or everything simply shut down into a sort of catatonia.

Jim shrugged one shoulder. A small smile played over his lips. "Then the solution to Sherlock's vapidity is obvious. Remove the doctor." He placed the thought in Mycroft's brain like a seed. Sherlock by himself could perhaps handle Mycroft's proclivities, but Sherlock with John would not. If Mycroft ever wanted to have a relationship with his brother again, he would have to do so without John's knowledge. 

Mycroft considered this; the flow of thoughts was clearly visible behind his grey eyes. Problems existed with that solution no matter which way the boy looked at it - not the least of which was that John was _nice_. Mycroft would have been much less bothered at the idea of getting rid of him if John had stayed a complete stranger, rather than the kindly doctor who'd come to check on him and talk to him even when Sherlock wouldn't. "But Sherlock likes him. He's not doing anything about it, for stupid reasons, but he'd be sad if John went away."

Mycroft's mind pictured John replacing the man in the interrogation room. Mycroft frowned. He didn't want to consider it.

"Then if you want your brother back," Jim whispered, leaning down over the boy to press his lips to his cheek, "you'll have to make him a better offer than John can. Think on that." Jim pulled away and smiled fondly down at him. 

They were pulling into another parking ramp, past the valet who offered to take their car. Seb put them as close to the exit as possible. 

Jim lifted the boy from his lap reluctantly, and they stepped out into the cool night. He straightened his tie and led the way into the adjacent hotel at a brisk pace, this time with Seb following closely behind Mycroft. 

Mycroft glanced around as they rushed to get to cover once more. There wasn't much to be seen in the scant few seconds they had between car and hotel - it was a parking ramp much like any other, with rows of sleek metal bodies and nondescript grey concrete. _That much_ , at least, hadn't changed since the 1980s.

Mycroft slipped through the doorway right behind Jim. He wondered how they were going to see sites around the city without being spotted by anyone at all. Whatever Jim had in store, it would be later; he'd made it plain enough that he had something else planned, more than just allowing Mycroft the use of the hotel shower.

They stopped at the front desk long enough for Jim to speak rapidly with the receptionist in Arabic. She handed him three key cards and then they were off again through the hotel. It was one of the more European buildings, and though there was not much to see in the hallway the other travelers they passed were of varying backgrounds. 

The room Jim had acquired was large. It was a suite of rooms, in fact. The moment they entered Seb set their bags down and took off, going through each room, turning the lights on and searching the place thoroughly. Jim ignored him until he came back with the all-clear. 

Seb holed himself up in one of the rooms soon after that, preparing for the following day. 

Mycroft wandered the edges of the room they currently were in. It was more luxurious than he was expecting; the taupe and grey, sterile style of interior was nowhere to be seen, replaced with modern trappings and amenities that called to mind the gaudy richness of the 1920s. Plush, overstuffed furniture and tables crafted of dark wood were scattered through the room, and the rest promised to be just as spacious and comfortable.

Mycroft peered through doorways after Seb came back until he found the bathroom. "Are we going to get dinner soon? I'm starving," he complained. He stepped into the room and began to fiddle with the taps until he got the water running as warm as he liked it.

Jim was typing into his phone and paid little attention to Mycroft’s question until he was finished. He made his way to the bathroom until he was standing in the door, watching Mycroft. "Just as soon as we're ready." He loosened the knot in his tie and began pulling it free of his collar. His jacket came next, and then the cufflinks at his sleeves. Jim's movements were casual, but his mischievous eyes remained on the boy throughout. 

Mycroft wasn't an idiot; colour suffused his cheeks as he watched Jim undress when he hadn't even gotten started on his own clothing. "...y'know, if you keep this up, I'm never going to _not_ be sore." The words weren't exactly a complaint about Jim's intentions - Mycroft's own system was just starting teenage overdrive - but Mycroft hadn't quite expected Jim to be so interested all the time. Hadn't expected him to be so interested in the _first_ place. 

Jim finished with the cufflinks and started on the front buttons. Mycroft watched the line of exposed, pale skin grow from neck down to navel.

"You can't fault me for the indulgence," Jim said as the shirt slipped from his shoulders. "Not when I'm this delighted to have you here. It wasn't exactly planned, you know." He stalked forward and caught the hem of Mycroft's shirt in his hands, easing it up over his head. "I'm going to take every…opportunity…" Jim's fingers undid the button of Mycroft’s trousers and pulled them slowly down his hips. "I can." 

He worked off the rest of his own clothes next, before sliding back the shower curtain and drawing Mycroft inside with him. 

Mycroft followed willingly, breathing a sigh of relief as warm water pattered over his skin. He pressed close to Jim so he'd have warmth on both sides, ignoring for the moment the member that was quickly hardening against his stomach. "I can't fault you, no. I can't say I haven't enjoyed it, either. I-" 

Mycroft paused to reorganize his thoughts. "... I didn't think I'd ever find anyone. Y'know. That was interested, much less the same. Even if I'd manage to find someone who liked me back, they never would have liked _all_ of me."

Jim was quiet for a moment, letting the sound of the spray against Mycroft's back fill the space between them. "You are so…open," he said softly. "It amazes me how vulnerable you are. It's quite beautiful." 

It did, perhaps, make sense that Jim would be awed by this confession. Jim wore his emotions on his sleeve, blatantly for all to see, but he wielded them like weapons. He spat his anger and delight at people the way Sherlock spat truths at them. Operating in this fashion never left him vulnerable. 

In others, he found the trait pathetic, but Mycroft was different. In Mycroft, perhaps because of the boy's likeness, he appeared to find the trait endearing. 

"You would be too, if you'd had my parents," Mycroft deflected. He didn't know what to do with the compliment. False flattery was one thing, as were the scattered praises that adults gave children - little sounds fluttering on the air, signifying nothing. Jim was serious, and the realness of his comment left Mycroft feeling even more vulnerable. "It's nice to not have to hide everything all the time." Nice, and a new experience.

"I'm sure it is." Jim tilted the boy's head back, running the heated water over his face and hair, followed swiftly by Jim's hands - down the back of his neck, over his shoulders, slipping down his spine. He bent and pressed his lips to Mycroft's before he had a chance to open his eyes again, enjoying the way his small body felt under the water and pressed so close. 

Mycroft's lips parted in response. A flicker of a thought occurred, now that Mycroft thought himself safe; Jim was used to his personality being the dominant one. He was accustomed to a position of control, and he had just commented on how vulnerable he found Mycroft. He wasn't mistaken, but it would be a mistake to extrapolate that concept into harmlessness or complete naïveté.

He couldn't compete with Jim physically. There was no way he could outmaneuver Jim in a show of bodily strength, but dominance wasn't always about physical traits.

Mycroft focused, ignored the pounding of his heart, and caught Jim's lower lip in his teeth. One hand drifted to the cleft at the small of Jim's back and he leaned forward - unable to push Jim against the shower wall, but enough to suggest the idea.

Jim groaned. When they broke apart, he was smiling wickedly. He'd caught onto the idea and, surprisingly, leaned back against the wall himself, albeit dragging Mycroft with him. It helped lower his height a few inches, bringing them that much closer. They kissed again, and Jim sought out the boy's teeth, nipping at his lips until the boy followed the encouragement and bit back. Jim's hands were in his hair and his eyes were intense with delight every time they met. 

Jim's encouragement helped a bit of Mycroft’s shyness slip away. A sly, hungry gleam had entered his eyes and he moved more confidently now that it looked like Jim would let him. What he lacked in experience, he tried to make up for through creativity and bravado. Smaller hips ground against Jim - he was still too short, far too short for them to slot together perfectly while standing, but the sound Jim made in response was worth the attempt. Mycroft roughly tangled the fingers of one hand in Jim's dark hair now that it was in reach. The other sought out Jim's cock, stroking over the crown.

Jim gasped. He didn't look like he was minding this turn of events at _all_. He rocked his hips into Mycroft's hand and braced himself against the wall so as not to slip on the floor of the shower. He was letting Mycroft do whatever he wanted, and it didn't seem to be a trick like he had done with Seb. Jim's eyes held none of the feral, mischievous light they had at the time. Instead, they were as soft as Jim Moriarty was ever going to get. Not as sweet as when he was Richard, but that had been an act anyway. His lips were parted and bruised from the boy's teeth. He grasped a ring in the shower so that he could hold himself up while his hips sought more of Mycroft's touch. 

Mycroft's smile widened and split into something far darker than should ever have graced a child's face. This was going far better than he'd expected. He rewarded Jim for his compliance, sliding his fingers over Jim's cock more quickly. He tugged at strands of dark hair until Jim's head tilted and left an expanse of neck more exposed. After a flicker of hesitation, wondering just how far the older man was going to let him go, he placed a line of kisses down tender skin.

When Mycroft reached Jim's shoulder, he bit.

The muscle tightened under his teeth, but Jim didn't pull back. Jim’s arm snaked around Mycroft's middle and pulled him closer. Even while knowing the delight the boy had taken in inflicting pain, Jim didn't try to stop him. A soft moan from his lips only encouraged Mycroft. The muscles in his arm strained to keep him up. He'd hardened fully in Mycroft's hand, but he let the boy continue to work at whatever pace he liked. Bracing his other hand on the side of the wall, Jim laid himself bare to his touches. 

Mycroft rutted against him, stroking Jim at a matching pace until he eventually growled in frustration. The sound was higher, softer, and less threatening than the boy cared for, and all it did was reinforce the fact that he currently had limitations. Jim was contorted into an awkward position just to give him better access.

That could be changed. Mycroft pulled back slightly and released the older man, gazing up at Jim with lust-darkened eyes and trying to project an aura of authority. "Lay down on the floor."

Jim's lips split into a grin, just barely flashing his teeth. His eyes were dark, and, for the second it took for him to lean forward and graze the boy’s lower lip with his teeth, his own nature slipped forward to rebel against Mycroft's. He'd reined it in a moment later, kissing him softly and slowly lowering himself to the ground. He was dragging Mycroft down with him, but Jim was complying. 

Mycroft hadn't been planning on going anywhere but down. He straddled Jim's waist, finally able to line them up. Mycroft did his best to ignore how inadequate he felt, concentrating on the pleasure instead of looking at how much of a size difference there was between them. Mycroft's hair framed his face and fell into his eyes in damp ringlets. It took a moment for him to shift position until he was able to reach behind himself. 

Mycroft's fingers turned careful and shy as soon as they reached their mark. They traversed down Jim's perineum to his entrance, freezing as soon as it had been found.

Jim spread his legs a wider, giving Mycroft permission. Perhaps Jim was watching the intentions flicker through Mycroft's mind and play out over his features, because he gave the boy a devious smile and his eyes were as dark as ever. 

Tentatively, the finger circled and then pushed forward, testing until it found enough pressure to breech Jim. Mycroft's hands were small, much smaller than Jim's, and Jim didn't show any signs that it made him uncomfortable. But then again, he wouldn't, not when the boy had witnessed Sebastian force his way into Jim without preparation only hours ago, and even then the smaller man had taken it without complaint. 

Mycroft's expression shuttered ever so slightly; it was a poor, reflexive attempt to hide his nervousness and uncertainty. He kept a close watch on Jim as he pushed his finger deeper. Muscles clenched tightly around him, and Mycroft could only imagine what that would feel like elsewhere. Just the thought made his cock twitch in response.

Jim didn't seem to be complaining or in discomfort, so Mycroft added another finger. He crooked them experimentally; he wasn't exactly certain where the right spot was, much less if he'd be able to reach it.

Jim reached down, over Mycroft's hip, and splayed his hand over the boy's to encourage his fingers deeper. He was sure to have noticed Mycroft’s uncertainty, but he urged him on anyway. "Farther… _ah_." Jim's voice hitched when his fingers were just about as deep as they could go. When the boy pressed them up with Jim's encouragement, brushing against the spot again, Jim gasped. 

Mycroft watched Jim with a dark, hungry look, drinking in the sight and sounds Jim made when he stroked against the right spot for a third time. Just the idea that he could make someone so powerful and dangerous become like _this_ , open and willing... Mycroft felt another wave of desire, coupled with possessiveness. Jim might have stolen Mycroft off the street, but Mycroft wanted to steal him in return.

After a few minutes Mycroft shifted back even further and removed his fingers. He eyed Jim and himself speculatively for a moment before his shoulders slumped ever so slightly; some quick estimations had left the boy convinced that fucking the older man the way he wanted to was, currently, an anatomical impossibility. Or at least a massive improbability.

When Jim opened his eyes and noticed Mycroft's pensive expression, he could tell what the boy was thinking. The corner of his mouth turned up and he half laughed before he pulled Mycroft down to him, chest to chest. Jim kissed his temple and whispered in his ear. "That's ok." No matter how awkward Mycroft felt, Jim only seemed to find his aggressive enthusiasm endearing. 

Jim lifted himself on his elbow and caught Mycroft's lips again, turning him on his side and aligning their hips together. 

Mycroft had felt a twinge of hurt at Jim's aborted laugh, but it was quickly dispelled once Jim made it clear that he wasn't making fun of him. Not really. Mycroft let Jim reposition them, kissing the older man back and running a hand down Jim's side. Someday, perhaps, he'd be able to do what he wanted. He'd managed to mark him, at the very least. Just glancing at the red circle on Jim's shoulder brought a smile to Mycroft's lips.

Jim rocked against him, slipping his cock between Mycroft's thighs and pressing them tightly together. He ran his palm over the boy's own, smaller cock and then gripped it in his fingers, matching his strokes with the pace of his hips. A deep groan came from him as they moved together. Mycroft's thrusts into his hand created delicious friction against the hardness between his thighs, and finally they began a real rhythm.   
A rush of pleasure quickly overrode any lingering disappointment that Mycroft might have had. He anchored himself by tightening his grip on Jim's waist and using it as a leverage point. Mycroft echoed Jim's groan and canted his hips. The heat between his thighs and Jim's hand on his was teasing, too slow. The boy kissed him again, then purposefully turned away and bared his neck. He watched Jim out of the corner of his vision.

This time, Jim did laugh softly, but it was only because Mycroft had done something unexpected. As Jim had willingly laid himself out for the boy, Mycroft was now doing so for him. Even his desire for matching bite marks was symbolic. Jim wrapped an arm around Mycroft's stomach and turned them over so that he was pressing down on him from above. His lips curled back to bare his teeth for a second in what looked more like a snarl than a smile, and then he sank them into the base of the neck and shoulder. 

Mycroft wasn't able to stop himself from crying out; he was used to dishing out pain, not receiving it. The feeling of teeth applying bruising force to skin and muscle had been more intense than he'd been expecting. The sound turned to a moan as he squirmed beneath Jim; with the pleasurable feedback from other portions of his body, the pain had metamophosized into something else. Mycroft bucked against Jim and tried to prolong the sensation.

The man on top of him must have felt the difference because Jim let out a muffled groan and stroked Mycroft with hard presses of his hand, letting him savor the feel. Jim's head jerked and his teeth twisted, just the slightest bit, to ensure it would leave a lasting mark. When he finally released the pressure, he kept his mouth pressed over the spot, soothing the ache with his tongue. "Didn't expect to like that, did you?"

"N-no..." Mycroft's voice could barely be heard over the hiss of the water around them. He could still feel the mark; he was going to have a vivid bruise for a while. Jim's tongue traced the edges and Mycroft shivered and bucked again. "...but you didn't expect it either." Even when he'd been distracted, he hadn't missed the effect it had had on Jim.

Jim's eyes crinkled with his smile. "No, I didn't. You had me thinking you only liked inflicting pain." Jim nuzzled under his jaw and thrust again with a grunt. His hands stroked down Mycroft's sides, pausing over his arse and reaching low enough to stroke the ring of muscle there. The water helped as far as slickness went, but it was little substitution for lube. Jim would need it if he wanted to work with anything larger than a single digit but, carefully, he breached Mycroft's body anyway. 

Mycroft gritted his teeth and rested his forehead against Jim's shoulder. Penetration was rougher without anything but water. Instead of a smooth slide, Mycroft felt the stretch and pull of his muscles as Jim slowly eased one finger in. He hadn't thought it would feel that different but, then again, Jim hadn't seemed to have minded when he'd been on the receiving end. "Do you... like both?" Mycroft's thoughts escaped him momentarily as Jim's finger found its mark. He thrust against the older man and the echoing slide between his thighs pulled a whimper from him.

Jim considered this for a moment. "Yes." He rocked against Mycroft with another little gasp, pressing at the same time. "But _no one_ gets to see me like that." He pulled his head back and their eyes met briefly. _Mycroft had come close to seeing him like that. Just now._ It wasn't spoken aloud, but the fact hung there between them. 

And then Jim was pulling away, getting up, but he motioned for Mycroft to stay. He ducked his head out of the shower and reached to the sink where the sound of him riffling through the drawers lasted a few moments before he came back with a bottle of lube and a grin. 

The solemnity of the previous moment was thoroughly shattered. Mycroft rolled his eyes at Jim's enthusiastic grin, but the corners of his own mouth curled up to mirror his expression. "Have you always made sure you have a supply close at hand?" he asked. "Or have I had that much of an effect on you, that you're reconsidering what you have as essentials?" Mycroft's words were teasing, but he shifted positions to give Jim easier access. 

Jim helped him up onto his knees. He slicked his finger and bent over Mycroft while he pushed it in, enjoying watching the boy's face when he did so. "I only bring what I need. And today…I needed this room stocked with extra supplies." The grin was all in his voice this time. Mycroft couldn't see his expression, but Jim's hot breath and lips brushed over the back of his neck when the man spoke. "Or is that simply a veiled attempt at figuring me out?"

"You never know. I'm- ... I'm trickier than you think." At the moment, thinking was more difficult than Mycroft wanted to admit. Mycroft's body was still voicing its complaints regarding how frequently this new activity was being indulged in, but Jim seemed to be telling the truth in at least one respect: preparation seemed to be getting easier. He knew what was coming and, more importantly, how good it felt once he finally relaxed. Mycroft's arms wrapped around Jim, both to aid his balance and simply because he wanted to _touch_. "You think I can't figure you out?"

"Normally, I would say no, but you…. You might just have a chance." Jim added a second finger while he spoke, nearly distracting the boy from his words. "But consider whether you really want to." He bent and pressed kisses up the boy's neck with softly nipping teeth. There may have been something to Jim's warning. He had, after all, kidnapped Mycroft intending to use him and then kill him. How much of that act had been motivated by revenge, because of Mycroft's relationship to Jim before the incident, and how much of that had simply been Jim's modus operandi was still in question. 

The feeling of teeth at his neck made Mycroft tighten around Jim's fingers. He had to concede Jim's point. Part of him was still very aware that he'd originally been intended to die shortly after his capture, and that dying was still not entirely off the table. The thought bothered him, so he didn't want to think about it. It was far easier to fall into a dream than to face all the threads of reality and consider what they might really mean. 

When Mycroft wrapped himself tighter around Jim, the older man added a third finger, working him open relentlessly. A hand stroked the back of Mycroft's neck when Jim pulled them free. The man might have been able to see where that train of thought had led him because the motion was soothing. Jim's lips placed a kiss on the other side of the boy's neck. He encouraged Mycroft to lift himself up, climbing into Jim's lap, legs spread apart on either side of his hips while Jim guided him over the head of his cock. 

Mycroft levered himself up, clinging to Jim's shoulders for support and balance. There was an awkward moment while they aligned themselves, and then he was impaling himself slowly while Jim stroked a hand over his back in encouragement. Part of Mycroft's mind whispered in fear, pointing out the lack of barriers. It made more of a difference than the boy was expecting; his eyes widened in surprise and turned upward, seeking out Jim's face.

When their eyes met, Jim leaned nearer, brushing their lips together. It was strange to look at another person this closely. Jim's eyes were huge, even with his lids half closed. A little smile played at his lips, and he eased Mycroft down farther while Jim's hips came up to meet him. 

They paused for a moment, once Mycroft was seated firmly in Jim's lap. Jim’s hands stroked his face. The older man was very tactile, but their eye contact never broke. "It's okay," he whispered, making it that much easier for Mycroft to ignore his lingering thoughts. 

Reassurance had been exactly what Mycroft needed. For all of his intelligence, all of his unusual maturity for a child of his age, he was still a child, with all of a child's sensitivities, doubts, and vulnerabilities. While it had been questionable in the beginning whether or not Mycroft would even have a choice about anything, he was choosing trust now. He searched through Jim's dark gaze, trying to determine whether what he saw matched Jim's words.

Jim was an incredibly difficult person to read. The man had intended to comfort Mycroft, but beneath the words, his eyes, his expression, even the way he held himself seemed honest. Jim was not nervous in the slightest. Yet he could mask all those things with incredible precision. Whether Mycroft was able to trust Jim's word or not, he could also find other clues.

Sebastian had known Jim a lot longer than Mycroft had, and he hadn't hesitated going after Jim in the slightest. Nor had Jim with Sebastian, and assumedly, as Jim's employee and personal bodyguard, Jim would know the man's medical history. By this logic, either both were clean, or neither cared. The former seemed more likely. 

Jim was asking for his trust beyond that, too. But he had warned Mycroft not to get to know him too closely. And that was confusing. It may have been Jim's attempt at honesty. 

All of this ran through Mycroft's thoughts, compounded by the fact that Jim was _waiting_. Waiting for Mycroft to make a decision, to give consent, rather than just proceeding with what he wanted. A ghost of a smile touched the boy's lips and he rose slightly, and then allowed gravity to pull him back down. The answering lust that wrote itself across Jim's features turned Mycroft's smile more solid, more real. "Okay," he whispered, then slipped his fingers into Jim's hair and pulled him closer for a kiss.

Jim gasped into it, urging Mycroft up and letting him fall back down again. And again. And again, until they were slowly sliding together in an unbroken rhythm. The position had Jim brushing against Mycroft's prostate on every thrust and it did wonders for the amount of control the boy had. Jim was forced to fight gravity, pinned beneath and between Mycroft's thighs, and if the boy wanted to, he could push Jim down by the shoulders. 

And he did. Jim's gasps had sparked a dominant streak in Mycroft again; he pushed on Jim until the older man was flat underneath him. Mycroft placed his hands on Jim's chest and straightened his spine, then continued the rhythm they'd started. Every so often he'd slow down or pause, giving Jim a teasing smile and watching for signs of frustration. It was a struggle to even force himself to stop - Jim wasn't the only one enduring a bit of denial.

Jim's sharp nails dug into his thighs. In spite of the motion's limitations, he still canted his hips up to meet Mycroft's every thrust down. He was panting and groaning and staring up at the boy through half lidded eyes, his lips lifting to snarl whenever Mycroft teased too much, but he didn't make a move to get up. Somewhere along the line, Jim had decided to indulge Mycroft's earlier requests, maybe to please the boy, maybe just to have another round, but even the fact that Jim was willing to let the boy take control, without slipping it out of his grasp as he'd done with Seb, was astonishing. 

Mycroft grinned, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. He finally relented, stoking fingers down Jim's cheek before he took hold of Jim's hands. He repositioned them at his hips, giving the older man the means to pull him back down more quickly. Immediately the pace quickened until Mycroft was panting under the assault. When Mycroft's legs weren't quite enough to allow for a faster rhythm he leaned forward slightly; the added space let Jim thrust upward more freely.

Jim's breath and snarls were coming faster. His control was slipping, visibly so. It was in his dark eyes and the way he stared up at Mycroft underneath narrow brows, his head bent down and the even muscles in his neck tight and straining with every move. When Jim couldn't take it anymore he rolled them over. Mycroft landed on his back, softened by Jim's arms wrapped around him, but Jim bore down on him from above, nearly smothering the boy with his weight and kisses before he pulled back just enough to thrust in again. 

Mycroft shut his eyes and held on for dear life. He was trapped, but Jim's weight and possessive arms were comforting rather than threatening, and the pleasure was driving all coherent thought out of his head. Jim was all around him and in him and slipping into his mind. Mycroft wrapped his legs around Jim's waist and just let himself feel, crying out in abandon as Jim lost control.

Jim pressed his hand between them, stroking Mycroft as quickly as he thrust. They were nearly sharing the same air Jim was so close to him. He pressed their foreheads together, but his eyes never shut. They could see every shade, every ridge, every lash, every freckle over the other's skin. In the stark white of the shower, Mycroft's eyes turned a pearly grey, and Jim fastened his attention there, never breaking contact. He was so close. It was seconds later and Jim was coming. 

Mycroft could _feel_ it. His eyes widened as he felt Jim twitch inside him, and with the knowledge of what that meant and the hand that continued to stroke him, Mycroft shuddered into completion. Jim's mouth was so very close, it took hardly any effort to close the distance and kiss him. Mycroft's gaze drifted to the mark he'd left on Jim's shoulder, the red now darkened to a vivid purple, and his grip on Jim tightened. He didn't want to let go.

They rode through the aftershocks like that, locked with each other while the water rained down on them. It was warm and sensual and let the tingling, shaky sensations ease out of their bodies slowly before Jim finally eased his hold on the boy. He pulled back just enough to let Mycroft breath, loosening one arm to brush the watery strands of hair out of his eyes. Jim was still panting, his lips full and as bruised as Mycroft's were. 

His mouth curled when he caught sight of the bite mark he'd left on the boy's neck. "This'll look good on you at dinner."

Mycroft smirked back. "It's a shame I left yours down so low. Then you could have shown off its mate." The implications of what Jim had allowed were just beginning to hit him. Either Jim was even more talented than Mycroft imagined and all of this was a series of calculated moves for some event off in the distance, or he'd truly managed to slip under the older man's skin on some level. 

Jim's smirk didn't fade as he pulled Mycroft to his feet. The man stretched, tilting his head back into the spray one last time before he took the soap and ran it down Mycroft's body. The water was still hot. It was becoming almost oppressive after the amount of time they'd been under it, but they still cleaned up thoroughly before Jim shut it off. 

The bottle of lube went back on the sink, and Jim found towels for them both in the closet. He ruffled it over his head and his hair stood up. It would have been funny, had anyone who worked for Jim seen him like that. It was even funnier that whenever his hair was out of place, it had a natural tendency to look like this. The mark on his shoulder, besides a few faded scars, was the only splotch of color on his skin. 

Mycroft tilted his head and regarded Jim with open curiosity, studying the man like one would a piece of artwork. The high contrast was what did it, he decided - when Jim wasn't projecting an air of menace, or sex, or falsely cheerful innocence, he didn't look quite real. He was a classical statue come to life, albeit one of Thanatos or Hades. 

Mycroft flushed and looked down, drying himself off and trying to push away a sudden wave of self-consciousness. He was all too aware of the things others perceived as physical shortcomings, from his too-wide, too-sharp nose, to the pattern of freckles scattered across his pale skin.

When Jim had the towel wrapped around him, he looked up. Mycroft had focused on the towel in his hands, but Jim's eyes narrowed. He'd caught that look. Jim straightened and moved back to the boy's side. His arms wrapped around Mycroft, temporarily halting his progress towards getting dry. "Mycroft. if I am with you, then you are beautiful. …more so than you would believe." Jim's finger trailed down his small chest. "Don't doubt the facts." 

Mycroft's eyes still had a melancholy, self-depreciative cast to them. One positive voice did little to counterbalance years of hearing otherwise, from a variety of people. "But I'm standing next to you," he said. "And, just... _look_." He turned to face the bathroom mirror.

The glass was still hazy with the remnants of steam, but the pair of them made a striking contrast; if Jim was an exquisite statue come to life, painted in white and black, Mycroft looked like a child from a folklore painting. His hair framed his face in picturesque curls, but there was something vaguely animalic about his features - eyes alarmingly pale, features slightly too sharp, calling to mind old Irish stories of Fae devils who'd been swapped for stolen human children. Mycroft didn't see it. His mind was filled with memories of teasing from other children and adults, people who pulled on his hair and pinched his skin and mocked his posh accent or intimidating intelligence.

Jim's mouth twisted in a wry smirk. He looked at the mirror in a very different way than Mycroft. "I could prove it to you, you know. But I doubt you'd care for the company…or that kind of attention. Still, I would be the one showing _you_ off." He stepped behind the boy, arms draped loosely over his shoulders. He forced Mycroft's head up and bent down to his ear. "Do you have any idea what I thought when I first saw you? It was a low quality CCTV capture the day you went out shopping, and I couldn't _believe_ it. I wanted you even then, and I was going to have you even if I had to pluck you off the steps of your brother's flat. And I'm very, very glad I didn't go through with the original plan."

Mycroft shivered. He hadn't wanted another reminder that Jim's original plan had been a round of torture and murder to get revenge for something Mycroft no longer remembered. "I just have to take your word for it, I guess." He wondered what he'd looked like when Jim had originally met him. The military personnel had promptly taken his badge away when he'd woken up, and Sherlock hadn't had any photographs in his house that he had been able to spot.

"You do that." Jim turned his gaze from the mirror and onto the boy himself. He smirked and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple before he pulled away. "Now hurry up." He disappeared through the door in only the towel, but came back a minute later with…a small pile of clothes. "I had this sent up for you. You needed a change if we wanted to go out for dinner. Jim cracked his neck in that lizard-like manner he had at times and began dressing himself. 

Jim was always dressed with taste, but if his trousers and suit coat were any indication of where they would be going, they wouldn't have let Mycroft in in what he'd been wearing previously. 

Jim was in all black, the shirt as soft as silk, but not shining like the lapels of his coat. As he buttoned it, he left the top three undone, pulling the collar aside to see the mark Mycroft had left. He smiled. If Jim left them like that, it was possible that particularly observant or interested eyes might glimpse the bruise. 

Mycroft finished drying off and started to dress with what Jim had brought him. The clothing was equally expensive in fabric and cut - the trousers and jacket matched Jim's suit, but the waistcoat and dress shirt were in complimentary shades of grey, just pale enough to draw attention to Mycroft's eyes. Mycroft felt like he was back at home, being told to dress up because his parents wanted him to impress their dinner guests. Crisp, tailored lines flattered and drew attention to his boyish frame and the narrow set of his hips, to the point that even Mycroft had to admit that the silhouette in the mirror looked good.

Still, he raised an eyebrow as he came to the tie; it was the color of dried blood, and a shock of warmth against the cool black and grey. "I don't know how to tie this."

The way Jim's lips drew back across his face was positively devious. He motioned the boy over, having him stand back to Jim's chest while the man's arms looped the tie around his collar. Jim's tactile nature was becoming more and more noticeable as he brushed his hands along the fabric over Mycroft's shoulders, along his collar bone, finally looping the tie in a perfect Windsor knot. He left it a little loose, just enough so that the collar wouldn't totally conceal Mycroft's bruise. 

"There." Jim's hands rested on his shoulders. This time when they looked in the mirror, they looked much more like a pair. 

Mycroft giggled. The suit looked much less boring than he'd thought it would, especially when it made such a contrast against Jim's clothing. He met Jim's gaze in the mirror, then tilted his head, looking up and giving Jim and upside-down smile. "I look like a mobster. Except I don't have a fedora." But he did have a gunman and a criminal mastermind, and he supposed that was what counted.

Jim smirked down at him with sharp teeth. "Maybe I can get Seb to loan you his gun," he teased. Except, it might not have been a tease. It was difficult to tell with Jim, especially after Mycroft had been told he’d have a chance to go out shooting with Seb and learn how to use firearms. 

Jim slicked his own hair back quickly and stroked Mycroft's one last time before they headed back out into the suite. "Seb, dinner!" Jim shouted through the door to the room the gunman claimed and collected his things, a spare wallet and his phone, from one of the duffel bags. 

It was a minute later before Seb emerged. He'd changed into a suit as well, and he looked _good_. His eye caught Mycroft in his new clothes, and he gave the boy a hint of a nod. "Ready?"

Mycroft beamed at him and nodded. Now that he was feeling better, all of the day's activities were taking their toll on his appetite. "Ready."


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft stayed tucked close to Jim's side, but he eyed Sebastian as the bodyguard led the way out the door. He knew the other man had to be armed, but he was having a difficult time spotting where he'd hidden the weapons. Seb's suit was also finely cut and didn't have any tension lines that normally suggested a gun harness underneath a jacket, nor could he see any bulges. His jacket was sitting straight rather than tilting more to one side, so there wasn't a hidden pocket either... unless there were hidden pockets on both sides and Sebastian had brought two weapons of equal weight.

They went back down to the parking garage where Seb left their side to get the car and pick them up, and once again they were off in the city. They drove to Midan Tahrir, the true center of modern Cairo. The streets were bustling with nightlife and traffic, and the square was a popular place. Their car easily disappeared in the throng, and although Jim and Mycroft might have been able to do the same in the crowd, Seb was taking no chances. They drove through alleyway after alleyway until they arrived at the backdoor of an upscale Thai restaurant. 

Without much more effort, Jim and Mycroft entered unseen. "Seb will park the car and watch us from a distance," Jim explained. "See if you can spot him."

Mycroft's eyes widened as they slipped in through the back entrance, emerging from the shadows into a much larger dining area. Even here, the light was subdued, all table candles and ceiling illumination diffused through facsimiles of paper lanterns. Every booth was semi-private and sequestered by screens, giving the illusion that the diners were more alone than they were. Mycroft was started out of his reverie as the maitre'd approached. The man gave them a once-over, assessing their clothing before deciding that they must be customers. 

Arabic didn't look like the man's native language, and he surely would have assumed the same for them, but before he spoke Jim greeted him in the Egyptian tongue. Instantly the man's expression turned from polite to openly welcoming. He greeted Jim smoothly in return and, at Jim's suggestion, brought them to one of the tables in the back corner. 

They sat down, he offered their menus, and detailed for Jim what sounded like the wine list before their waiter arrived and Jim sent them away with an order and a wave of his hand. 

Mycroft was attempting to surreptitiously scan the premises for Sebastian. He almost got away with it, except for the fact that he shifted and leaned too much in order to compensate for his height. Normal diners would have mistaken him for a fidgety pre-teen, but Jim knew what he was doing. 

"What did you order?" Mycroft asked. He'd given up for the moment and switched his attention back to Jim. 

"Rice whisky." Jim cocked his head and smirked playfully. "I'll let you try it." He opened his menu, gave it a quick read through, and then set it back down on the table where his elbows rested. Jim seemed more interested in watching Mycroft than the food, even though he should have been just as hungry as the boy, if not more. "I daresay that suit was a good fit for you. And did you notice the waiter?" Jim's eyes glinted deviously in the low light. "He glanced at your neck no less than twice." 

Mycroft went still. Jim could see the panic creep up around the corners of the calm mask plastered across the boy's face. "Did he look like he was going to do anything?" Mycroft whispered. He knew that, back in England, drawing too much attention to their unusual relationship would have brought down the attention of the law. Mycroft didn't know enough about the law systems and cultures of other countries to know whether or not it was considered taboo. Or taboo enough to prompt someone to take action, at least. It wouldn't even necessarily have to be about age differences - same-sex relationships seemed to still be an issue in many places around the world.

"No. Right now he's trying to figure out if it is what he thinks it is, and when he does, he'll make some subtle gesture to me, expecting to find an extra tip when we're finished. I'll leave said tip, and then take him out back, and kill him." Jim's sharp teeth made an appearance when he smiled. "Only the tip would have been necessary, but I'm in a very good mood today." 

As if on cue, the waiter turned up with Jim's bottle of scotch and water for the both of them. He poured the tumbler of amber liquid into a glass, and without pretense, Jim asked for another, to which he obliged. 

Mycroft had relaxed after Jim's explanation and now smiled cheerfully at their waiter. He looked perfectly at ease. After the man filled the second glass a sly look flickered through Mycroft's eyes. The boy's body language shifted and became less-than-subtly flirtatious. "Mo muirnín, I'm afraid I can't read Arabic. Unless you're feeling up to describing a few things for me, perhaps you'd better order, hmm?" Mycroft's gaze never left Jim's face, but he could hear the waiter shift slightly in discomfort.

Jim's smile flashed again, drinking in the boy's cleverly subtle endearment. His eyes slid from Mycroft to the waiter with eerie fluidity and the man looked like he'd been pinned to the spot. His smile grew strained and his eyes never left Jim, instinctively sensing danger even if his rational mind countered the irrational fear. 

Jim lifted his chin and spoke just as fluently as he had before, ordering for them at Mycroft's request. The waiter nodded, committing it to memory, until Jim was finished. He then thanked them or said some pleasantry, and hastened away. 

"You'll like the massaman curry, I think. And your Scottish is delightful." Jim winked before raising his glass to his lips. 

Mycroft grinned and giggled, pleased with himself and the praise he'd earned. "I only know a little bit. I like learning other languages, but my parents said Gaelic wasn't practical, so... they made me study the family language." Mycroft rolled his eyes, which spoke concisely about what he'd thought of that. "I don't see how French is that much more practical, but Mummy insisted."

Jim held the glass between his hands and rolled it between them, simply enjoying the boy's charisma. The lapse into an almost carefree disposition hadn't been a common occurrence yet, but the criminal found it endearing. He made note to find out what other hidden interests the boy possessed. Mycroft seemed delighted he'd caught on to one. 

"You'll be a quick study. And learning any language is useful, depending on what you want to do with it. There was once a cardinal in the Vatican library who spoke 78 languages and dialects. He never once left Italy." 

"I've taught myself pieces from books before. I just had... other things to learn, and if my parents were happy with what I was studying, they paid less attention at other times." Mycroft finally picked up the extra glass of rice whisky and gave it an experimental sniff. He tried a sip and quickly set the glass down, coughing. " _Fuck._ " The boy blushed and ducked his head automatically, expecting a rebuke that never came. He glanced at Jim and only found the older man wearing a look of supreme amusement. 

"...sorry. Um. I was going to say that I've started looking at computer languages, since those seem to work just like human ones."

"You…will… _love it_." Jim enunciated each syllable like they tasted as good on his tongue as he made them sound. "We've come a long way since C++. The logic of it is almost…sublime. And the wealth of information you'll find…" Jim shook his head. He looked like he would soon be waxing poetic about it himself. "The world operates on roughly _four percent_ of the web. Once you unlock the rest…." 

Jim knew he was enticing Mycroft. He was making no attempt to hide the seductive nature of his words. He very well knew, possibly more than anyone now, the prospects digital information held for the boy. 

Mycroft was ensnared. Jim could see the way his gaze sharpened, the subtle shift to his breathing. Mycroft lusted after knowledge just as much as he did for blood and pain, as he did for control to free him from anxiety and uncertainty. Jim was dangling a golden apple in front of him, and Mycroft couldn't resist biting. "Will you show me? Help me figure out the best ones to study? There are so many. I started looking at the basic ones used in web design, but those are so simple and limited..."

Jim's smile turned feral. "I would love to." 

If the man had been intending all along to ensnare Mycroft's mind, body, and soul, he was well on his way to ticking off each on his invisible tally. Jim was obviously delighting in it. He was opening up a whole new world for the boy, and it was Jim's world this time, not the one that had been known to Mycroft before - although it was, in fact, much of the same world. For Jim, perhaps, perspective made all the difference. 

"I haven't even had a chance to look at all the applications, but so much control looks like it's being routed through computer systems. You could do _all sorts_ of things and never have to get up from your chair to make it happen." 

Jim looked so pleased, giving him the toothy grin that Mycroft now recognized as encouraging rather than threatening, and all Mycroft wanted to do was soak up the attention. Attention that he'd not gotten at home, not in the way he'd wanted. Mycroft stared back and his excitement slowly bled away into seriousness. "Obtenir enlevé par vous était l'une des meilleures choses qui me soit jamais arrivée," he admitted quietly. [[“Getting abducted by you was one of the best things that ever happened to me.”]]

Jim slowly cocked his head, resting his chin on one hand to regard Mycroft and his sudden and open admission. Jim relaxed, falling into the comfortable honesty that came to the surface of Mycroft's demeanor. Jim was studying him, but it was only cursory. Mycroft's admission created a confidence between them that, though it had been building, only now slotted, tentatively, into place. 

"Surely you don't mean that." Jim turned his tumbler in a slow circle on the table, an unconscious motion as his eyes never left Mycroft. He didn't look like he doubted the boy, necessarily, but it was a challenge to Mycroft's statement nevertheless.

"You don't know what my life was like. I mean... a few days ago, not when I was... _older_." The concept was still strange to Mycroft, that everyone around him had known a different version of himself. "You could guess some things, but you don't _know_."

Mycroft didn't know what Jim's childhood had been like, but he seemed to have cut ties cleanly. Mycroft had been born into a net, thoroughly trapped by expectation and political machinations and a lack of privacy. Always with the threat of what would happen with one misstep hovering over his head. "Il s'agit d'une évasion de ce destin." [[“It is an escape from fate.”]]

Jim's chin tipped and the black holes set where his eyes should have been _fixed_ to Mycroft. He was like a laser scanner. "You'd never seemed the rebellious type before, at least never outright. Only ever so subtly did you pull your influence for your own gains." A hint of the lilt entered Jim's voice as he remembered. "But you weren't always that way…oh, I can see that _now_." His eyes flashed with curiosity. "Your family. I've had dealings with several sides of the family, but only from afar. I've never witnessed the way they raise their children…" 

Mycroft hesitated. It should be safe to talk about them now, with so many of them dead - or so Sherlock had claimed. "There is... was, a lot of competition. We used to have a lot of famous people in a number of different areas, but everyone got more average over time. Ma mère... pushed me very hard. I was better than anyone expected, but nothing was ever enough. The rest of the family got jealous and frightened and used to try to kill me in different ways whenever we had gatherings." Fear had been a constant companion, almost tangible. 

 

"And everyone is watched for... problems. Like I have. Because it is dangerous and shameful for everyone if you get caught." Mycroft flushed and his gaze fell to the candle centerpiece on the table between them. "Ils n'ont pas pu me rattraper avec les animaux, mais ils ont réalisé que je suis seulement intéressé par les autres garçons. Il ya quelques semaines. Ma mère m'a battu." [[“They did not catch me with the animals, but they realized that I'm only interested in other boys. A few weeks ago. My mother beat me.”]]

Contrary to what Mycroft had just admitted, the corner of Jim's lip twitched. A smile would have been a slap in the face of Mycroft's pain, but Jim was not a nice man anyway. Still, the hint of it wasn't there because of Mycroft's admission - it was there because they were alike, and Mother Holmes had practically driven the boy into Jim's arms. Jim closed his eyes and gave the slightest nod. "She made quite an impression on you then. You not only gave in, you bought that life hook, line, and sinker." Finally, Jim did smirk. "But I would thank her if she were still alive. After all, she all but handed you to me like this." 

The boy fidgeted, not certain how to reply. "There's not much of a choice about buying if it's between death, permanent imprisonment, and compliance," he murmured. Mycroft remembered those lectures very, very well. "I'm only guessing, but I think Sherlock ended up better off because I protected him from a lot of it." And that was another point of bitterness, wasn't it? From what he could see, Sherlock had been free to do what he wanted.

Jim sobered somewhat, but there was a hardness about him now. "Fear rules us all, doesn't it." It was a statement he said more to the glass in his hand than to Mycroft as he downed the rest of his whiskey. He sucked air through his teeth after the bitter taste, or maybe the tumultuous cycle of his thoughts, and though he set the glass gently back down on the table, a deep seated anger burned within his stillness. "You will not be afraid in my presence anymore, do you understand? These people are dead, and the ones who are not are ignorant to your circumstances, and most _importantly_ , I will _burn them alive_ if they rise against me. And you will _help_ me, and you will not _ever_ be afraid." 

Mycroft watched Jim for a long moment. There was a sorrow in his eyes that made him look older than his small handful of years, deeply rooted from an even more tender age. "...do you mean it?" he asked. Jim was radiating anger, but it wasn't directed at Mycroft. "I don't want to be afraid anymore. To worry that- ...that I'll suddenly die and all that will be left is warning exhibit in the family museum, next to the others." Mycroft blinked back the dampness at the corners of his vision. The other side of the table was suddenly too far away, when all the boy wanted to do was have Jim touch him, reassure him that it was all going to be alright.

Jim did not look like he was ready to comfort anything at the moment, furious as he was on the boy's behalf, furious that Mycroft had previously given up such potential for the sake of life, but one laid out for him. "I will _slaughter_ them." Jim drew out the word like a dying hiss under his breath. 

However similarly they had started out, Jim Moriarty had chosen a very different path in life. Mycroft did not know whether Jim had ever had to make that choice, safety or death, but if he had, he had certainly chosen death and somehow come out alive on the other side. It was almost necessary, then, that Jim would harbor a deep loathing for the alternate choice. 

Their waiter had the unfortunate timing to arrive with their food at that moment. He set their plates down with caution. Mycroft took advantage of the man's preoccupation with Jim to scan him. He wondered how exactly they were going to kill him once they were done - whether he'd be allowed to help.

Like water, the ferocity of Jim's anger flowed out of him and left a placid, pleasant calm in its wake. He turned to the waiter mildly and thanked him. All traces of his displeasure had disappeared. The man looked a little stunned, but grateful that Jim hadn't turned it on him as the waiter no doubt assumed he was doing to the boy. That bit of leniency on Jim's part might have been all the man needed to finally show his hand because as he poured his guest another whiskey, his gaze flashed pointedly to the mark on Mycroft's neck, and then met Jim's. Jim accepted the challenge by holding the man's gaze and allowing the barest curve of his lip. 

Appeased, the man straightened. "I hope everything is to your liking," he said in heavily accented English for Mycroft's benefit. "Is there anything else I can get you?" 

"That will be all." Jim dismissed him with one of his plastic expressions. 

Mycroft waited for the man to get out of earshot, watching his form as he retreated. The waiter had been so presumptuous, self-assured that he had the advantage. Mycroft was looking forward to seeing his shock as the world turned on its head. "Do I get to help?" he asked calmly as he picked up his silverware.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose after the first bite. Apparently, Jim's choice had pleasantly surprised him.

Jim's eyes crinkled over a mouthful of eggplant. "Absolutely." He took a few more bites. "Seb will have brought a gun, I believe. You may have to _find_ it. He's gotten _so_ good at hiding them since I made a game of calling them out. He didn't like that game very much." Either Jim had caught Mycroft visually searching their bodyguard when they'd left, or he was telepathic. 

Mycroft grinned and inclined his head in acknowledgement; Jim had seen right through his attempt at stealthy scanning. He was putting away the food at an alarming rate and talking between mouthfuls. "I did find him, but I haven't figured out where the gun is yet. Normally the weight makes clothing crease or sit funny, but I don't see anything."

Jim nodded his understanding and with a hint of humor, added, "He's wondering, I'm sure, why you were staring at him so intently." The criminal chewed thoughtfully, the picture of curious composure. All the mirth was in his eyes. "I think he was even a bit flattered."

The boy froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. "I... um..." The fork descended and Mycroft studiously avoided glancing towards where Sebastian was keeping watch. "I don't think he likes me like that. We just... are interested in the same things." Guns. Torture. Jim. The thought conjured a mental image that had Mycroft blushing and tensing all at once. As titillating as the idea was, the boy wasn't overly fond of the idea of sharing.

Jim smirked anyway. He refrained from commenting further, just popped a bite of chicken into his mouth and washed it back with more whiskey. He didn't seem at all upset by the idea, at least. But then again, he had no reason to be jealous; they both wanted him. 

"You'll get to see him work tomorrow though." Jim swirled his drink. "From afar, yes, but I'll make sure we're close enough to see the action." 

"And you'll let him take me out to learn how to shoot, right?" Jim had agreed earlier, but Mycroft wanted to make certain he remembered. Getting to see Sebastian work would be a treat, but having a chance to help sometime in the future would be even better. 

Mycroft picked up his glass of whisky and, after a moment, gave it another try. Carefully this time. It still burned his throat and tongue, and the taste was odd, but it didn't leave him coughing and spluttering like it had on the first attempt. The liquid slid down his throat and warmed as it went. 

"Yes, yes, I haven't forgotten," Jim mused as he watched the boy drink. It could almost have been the elder Mycroft in his place, he was so carefully composed. The previous Mycroft's expression would have been calm, designed to keep up the social barrier around himself. Now, the calm simply came from his attempt to conquer the drink. And it seemed he'd succeeded. While he was unmistakably still a boy, he still managed to seem collected as he sipped the whiskey. 

Mycroft noticed something different in Jim's eyes as the older man watched him. The change was subtle enough that he almost missed it. Mycroft's focus bled away and his eyebrows drew together as he returned Jim's gaze. 

"You're remembering something." That was what it had been, a slight distraction that had given the impression that Jim was staring through him instead of directly at him. "...did we meet more than just that one time?" Jim no longer seemed upset that Mycroft's former self had tortured him, but appearances could be deceiving.

Something about Jim warmed at the boy's accurate observation. "Never in person, no. But it wasn't the first time I had seen you, albeit through surveillance. I spent weeks under your care, and in the end, it was more conversation than torture." Jim set his utensils down for a moment in reflection. "A drink, for example. You would bring me scotch and we would have a walk down memory lane."

A spark of curiosity lit up Mycroft's grey eyes, but was tempered with wariness; he both did and did not want to know what had happened to him. It was a temptation, but one that Mycroft knew could reveal things he'd rather have remained oblivious to. "Was it terrible?" _Was I terrible?_ That was the unspoken question hanging in the air between them.

"Oh no, the scotch was the finest you had. Or…second finest, I'd imagine." Jim skirted the question almost playfully, but became serious upon sensing Mycroft's worry. "Mostly, it was terribly _dull_." Jim shrugged a shoulder. "And I was very sore after the ordeal, but endured no lasting damage. I assure you, you were the perfect gentleman." There was surely more to it all than only that, such as the questions of how and why, precisely, Jim had allowed himself to be caught, and why Mycroft had given up and let him go. 

"I doubt that's entirely true, or you wouldn't have been so upset when we first met." Revenge had been at the forefront of Jim's mind. It wouldn't have been so terribly personal and focused if he'd merely tricked the right information out of Jim and spoiled one of his plans. Even so, dull seemed to be the operative word. "...I was boring, wasn't I."

Jim grew still, not all of a sudden, but a focused sense of calm washed over his features as he thought back to the Mycroft of before. If he had to think about it, the answer was obvious. "Yes," he conceded. "From what I understand now, _intentionally_ so." 

Mycroft must have been good at it, to slip his darkest inner secrets past Jim's laser focused intelligence. His mask would have been cultivated over an entire lifetime. 

Mycroft nodded in disappointment. His suspicions still seemed to be correct - he'd settled for being half-alive, or less, rather than being dead. A bit of enjoyment here and there, but always minor and well-hidden, and robotic emptiness in between. Mycroft wondered what had happened to scare him enough to take that devil's bargain. He didn't want to die, but he wasn't certain that his other self had been doing something that could be described as _living_.

His food had grown cold, and Mycroft found he no longer had a taste for the conversational topic. "I gotta use the loo," he murmured as way of explanation as he stood. The boy had spotted the hallway that was most likely to have the restaurant's lavatory - it would take him right past Sebastian's post.

Jim nodded and watched him go. 

The boy meandered between the semi-secluded tables, heading for the back of the restaurant. He passed Sebastian at the bar, but the man appeared to be more interested in chatting up a woman with dark eyes and long, flowing hair than noticing the lone boy passing. Seb's stature and hair made him a striking figure even though he leaned casually against the bar far enough to shave a few inches off his true height. His laughter and open flirtation made him seem the perfect tourist, easily passed over. 

Once Mycroft had passed, however, blue eyes searched out brown across the room, and Jim knew he meant to go after the boy. 

Mycroft ducked into the loo, eyes sharp and alert for the first sign of trouble. He didn't relish the thought of being careless and ending up in the hands of _another_ kidnapper. Luckily for him, the bathroom was well-lit and empty. Mycroft put some distance between himself and the doorway.

The boy felt... odd. It took a moment for him to realize exactly why, but it seemed obvious once he thought about it. His surroundings had taken on a faintly surreal atmosphere and his skin felt overly warm. The logical conclusion was that his body had started to feel the alcohol he'd drunk. Mycroft had no frame of reference to compare the experience to because he'd never been permitted alcohol in such strength and quantity before.

It wasn't long before the door swung open again, but before Mycroft had a chance to react, the familiar figure of the blond man came striding through. Seb checked out the area much in the same fashion as Mycroft had just done before kicking the rubbish bin too close to the door. Anyone who opened it now would first encounter the bin and alert them without the tactic being obvious. 

"Hey," Seb said with his lopsided smile. "You two getting on alright over there?" 

Mycroft had stiffened in alarm before he'd recognized who his visitor was. The relief on his face was palpable. "Oh, hey. Yeah, we're doing fine, except for the fact our waiter is a presumptuous arse. He's trying to get a bribe, so... things are going to get interesting when we leave."

Mycroft didn't manage to disguise his gaze as thoroughly this time. Grey eyes flicked over Seb's form as he tried to puzzle out where the blond was hiding his weaponry.

Seb raised an eyebrow with his arms crossed over his chest and his back leaning against the counter. His eyes moved over Mycroft in return, no doubt noticing the way the boy was looking at him and finding it curious. "Ah. With those teeth marks on your neck, I can imagine," he teased. "You can let Jim know I'll be ready. Just get the guy where you want him and I'll be there." 

Mycroft wandered closer. He was only paying half-attention to their discussion. "Jim said it will be once we leave, out back. I'm sure he'll trick the man into following us out, so just watch for when our bill comes." 

The boy was entirely too short to have access to Seb's shoulders, so he shrugged and started with what _was_ in reach. His hand slid down Seb's thighs, feeling for a slender harness that might not show through dress trousers. Mycroft was willing to bet that Seb had at least one knife hidden near his ankles.

"Whoa- what…?" Seb stiffened, just barely perceptible under Mycroft's fingertips. The man's arms unfolded, but they hovered just over Mycroft's head, not knowing what to do with them because the boy was too far within his space now to lower them casually, and it seemed Seb didn't want to push him away or stop him either. He inhaled sharply. "Did Jim give you alcohol?"

"Yeah, some sort of rice whisky. It was strange." Mycroft's voice seemed slower than normal, as if it took extra effort to formulate the words. He couldn't feel anything strapped to Seb's thighs, so his fingers drifted up to the man's hips and waist. "Where do you keep them? You've hidden them really well, I can't see anything even when I'm right next to you."

Seb's brows furrowed over his still widened eyes. When Mycroft's hands started to wander inward, the man finally caught his wrist. "Are you… searching for weapons?" 

Seemingly innocent grey eyes looked up at him, and Seb was caught a little off guard. He wasn't used to interacting with kids. Especially not heavily buzzed ones. And especially not ones like Mycroft. The overt curiosity was somewhat awkward, and though Seb seemed uncertain of the boy's attentions rather than resistant, it was probably due to Jim's interest in the boy and the gunman's fear of allowing Mycroft to cross a line Jim wouldn't like. 

On the other hand, it was Jim after all who had forced Sebastian to share a heated kiss with Mycroft…. And the madman had been delighted to watch. 

"Yeah. You have to have something on you, but you've been clever about it. Jim teased me and it's bothering me that I can't figure it out." Sebastian was tall enough that Mycroft had a long way to look up, when he was this close. "It's not showing in your clothing, so it has to be underneath, close to the skin and in areas where fabric creases normally, or where there's a space."

Seb's lips parted in a grin before he caught himself and gave a soft laugh. "Sound reasoning." He chewed his lip for a moment and ultimately must have decided that Jim wouldn't be offended, because he stepped back only to prop himself atop the lower portion of the counter, a decoratively tiled slot meant to hide the waste bin and take a look in the mirror. It brought Seb down by a good six inches at least. "I have three. Two guns, one knife." 

He laid his arms open and presented himself for Mycroft's inspection. 

Mycroft gave Seb a sharp look, then grinned. He could hear the unvoiced challenge, and Sebastian had even settled onto a position where it'd be easier to check. "What do I win if I find them all? It's not a game without a reward." Mycroft sunk to a crouch and checked Sebastian's shoes and ankles, then began working his way up. His hands encountered something harder than muscle. One hand ducked under the hem of Seb's trouser leg and Mycroft's grin widened. "Found the knife."

Seb gave him a satisfied grin. "What would you _like_ if you find them all?" he asked. He was still getting to know Mycroft, and, unlike Jim, he had the disadvantage of not being able to read him very well. Mycroft was far more open at this age than he had been as an adult, but he had quirks to his personality that were strange and hidden. _Very like Jim._ Seb watched pink lips tighten in concentration and the boy's eyes follow his hands as they moved. It was a very intimate activity. Mycroft wasn't giving him the standard pat-down known to every man who had ever professionally carried a gun. 

Mycroft pondered what to answer as he continued his search. The whisky Jim had given him was making it difficult to think quickly - far more than Mycroft had been expecting. He stood and ran his hands along Sebastian's shoulders and arms, then down his back. A small catch to the fabric drew his attention and sent his fingers searching along Seb's torso. "You... already promised to take me out shooting, and Jim already promised I'd get to help with the waiter..." And there it was; Mycroft followed slender line of the harness across Seb's chest to his armpits. The solid bulk of a gun was tucked beside one arm, far closer than a standard police harness. 

Mycroft glanced at Sebastian again and found the older man staring back. They hadn't been this close, and eye-to-eye, since that one particular morning. The memory resurfaced, and Mycroft gave Seb an uneasy smile. "...maybe another kiss?" he asked lightly, prepared to pass the comment off as a joke if Sebastian had a negative response.

Sebastian's ice blue eyes held his gaze for a moment that stretched nearly too long between them, but instead of growing uncomfortable, it pulled them closer. Something in the man seemed to be softening. The way the furrow of his brow smoothed, and the muscle at the corner of his lips lifted almost unnoticeably before his composure dissolved into a knowing smile. No, he was definitely not put off by the suggestion. 

"I think that's fair." The way he held his arms open prevented him from touching the boy, but the look in his eyes said that he would very much like to when Mycroft found the second gun. 

The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched upwards in relief; it was subtle, but this close, Sebastian couldn't have failed to notice it. He nodded and continued to search. Thus far, there didn't seem to be any other straps on his upper torso. With both of Seb's arms and legs clear, that left a very limited area where the remaining weapon could be secreted.

Mycroft reached around Seb and started from the back, under his jacket, feeling his body through the thin layer of cloth. There was another strap just below his waistband. Mycroft blushed as a quick investigation confirmed that the gun wasn't tucked behind him - it would have shown through his trousers, if it was. His fingertips followed the dip where leg met hip, and eventually he found what he was looking for. More than what he was looking for - two hard objects, one slightly cooler than the other.

Seb's hands finally moved, slowly, to the boy's face. His breathing had deepened with Mycroft's hands running over him curiously. "Yeah," he murmured, "…you did that to me." He must have been hard since Mycroft began his inspection. Likely since he'd gone down on his knees in front of Sebastian. The man's half smile pulled back just far enough for the light to catch his straight teeth, a reflection of one of Jim's smiles. He must have picked it up from the criminal unconsciously. 

The reflection of Jim in the bodyguard made Mycroft's breath catch. The line between the two blurred slightly - two men who he’d started to regard as personal heroes or inspiration, and both of them found him interesting. For a self-conscious child, it was enough to be a bit overwhelming. 

Mycroft leaned closer, uncertain of what to do. He hadn't spent as much time with Sebastian as he had with Jim, hadn't quite shook off his shyness around the bodyguard. Seb didn't show any signs of pulling back, so Mycroft swallowed down his anxiety and touched their lips together.

One of the man's large hands cupped the back of his head, and Seb broke free of his stillness and pushed forward, opening his mouth for Mycroft and catching the boy's lips. It was obvious right away that the gunman was experienced with this. Where Jim was all passion, Seb had more technique. That might have been expected from a man who'd trained his body like an instrument, but he really did know how to kiss. 

His other hand rested at the small of Mycroft's back, pressing him in closer. 

As similar as both men's tastes were in some things, Sebastian and Jim were like night and day. Both were overwhelming, but in different sorts of ways - a slow, controlled, building resonance instead of a torrent of desire and power. Mycroft gasped into Seb's mouth and let him in, leaning into him without another thought. The only awkwardness was in navigating the kiss. Sebastian was a bigger man than Jim was, in height as well as bulk.

Mycroft finally settled between Sebastian's legs. The older man hadn't been the only one affected by the weapons search.

Seb shifted his weight forward, planting his feet firmly on the floor and lifted Mycroft off the ground so that the boy was straddling his waist. This gave Mycroft much easier access considering the man's height, but more importantly, it brought their hips together and with Seb's hand flat over his back and pushing him forward, the friction between them was exhilarating. 

Mycroft smiled around the kiss. Sebastian's encouragement was making him bolder, and this was territory with which he was quickly becoming more familiar. He pulled back and trailed fingers down Seb's cheek, feeling the rough beginnings of stubble. Remembering earlier that day - the pleasure of experimenting beside him in the interrogation room, the intensity and discomfort that followed when Jim and Seb clashed. The jealousy, possessiveness, and desire that had been aroused.

Mycroft shifted in Seb's lap, teasing them both. "...we should ask Jim," he murmured. Regretful as it was, if he'd been frightened and angry by what had passed between the men at the warehouse, Mycroft had no idea how Jim would react to his wish to experiment with anyone else.

Seb planted another kiss at the corner of the boy's mouth, but he pulled back again. "Yeah," he breathed. His chest rose and fell heavily against Mycroft, but Seb was in control of himself, and he knew, probably even better than Mycroft, how Jim could react to them doing this without his permission. 

Seb's hands settled at his hips and the blond no longer looked at him like he was only a boy. Gently, he lifted Mycroft and set him back down on the floor, and then straightened himself. 

"Well," he rolled his shoulders. "now you know, for certain, I'm armed." 

Mycroft smirked. "Armed, and hiding things in all sorts of interesting places. I'll have to check you again sometime to see if you have more surprises." The boy's grin turned teasing as his comment earned him a calculating look from Seb.

Mycroft glanced at the mirror and tugged his clothing back into place, then made for the door. He paused at the threshold. "Remember to watch for the bill and get ready." With that, he pushed the door open and began the walk back to Jim's table.

Jim was still sitting in their corner and seemed to be perfectly content. He had been working at his whiskey, having polished off another glass and started on a third. When their eyes met across the room, Jim locked on him and didn't take his gaze off the boy until he was sitting down across from the man. 

The door at the far end swung open again and Seb exited, casually making his way back to the bar. 

Jim's gaze was knowing. "So did you find what you were looking for…?"

"Yes, I found everything." The boy met Jim's eyes without flinching; he knew that Jim would know, that Jim would have put everything together the moment he walked back through the door. "It wasn't that difficult, once I got close enough. We have to talk about some things later, though."

Jim's face broke into a grin. "I imagine we do." 

He left it at that, neither condoning nor disapproving of what had happened between Mycroft and their bodyguard. Not yet. But Jim was going to be quite drunk if he kept up his pace with the whiskey. He had a better tolerance for it than Mycroft, but he was not a very large man himself and he was working on his third glass. Still, it hadn't seemed to affect him yet. 

Their waiter came by with the check, and Jim stopped him with a hand lightly touching the man's arm. Though they spoke in Arabic, he was clearly asking the man, not very subtly, whether he would accept his tip in cash. This must have been exactly what the man had been hoping for. Before he left, he flashed Jim a sickeningly subservient smile and Jim returned one of his own to match. 

Mycroft held his breath as he watched the exchange. He licked his lips as he watched the waiter retreat. "Are we leaving soon, then?" he asked. He turned to look at the bar; Sebastian was nowhere to be seen. As good as the food had been, Mycroft was ready to go. Especially if the rest of the night promised new locations and enjoyable experiences. 

Jim nodded and took a large swig of his drink. He held it between his hands and focused on Mycroft. "It will have to be quick tonight," his voice was low, barely recognizable even to the boy sitting across from him. "We'll take him two blocks down, make it look like he was visiting a convenience store on his break. But we won't have much time once he realizes what's happened."

Mycroft nodded. He'd already had a good deal of fun earlier. He didn't need to draw this kill out. Two in one day was a treat, as it was. "Umm..." A thought had occurred, a concern that tickled the back of his mind just as it had the previous time. "What about- ...you know. How we do it. I don't... want him to come back looking for revenge."

Jim looked at him pointedly and raised an eyebrow. "I have been doing this for decades, and I can tell you right now that no one, ever, has 'come back for revenge'. The closest you will come are their friends looking for revenge. But _if_ it were to ever happen, then I would simply kill the bastard again," he finished with a toast. 

"...can we make sure anyways?" Mycroft asked. His voice had quieted; even he knew, on some level, that his request was based on an irrational fear. That he was asking Jim the equivalent of checking under the bed and in the closet for monsters. Even knowing that it had no basis in reality didn't help. It was far easier to take precautions against tangible, logical things than to fight the shadows in your mind. The monsters there never quite died and always changed the rules when you least expected it. "It's just an extra bullet..."

"It's fine," Jim waved his hand and it was plain the man didn't really care how many bullets they used on the man so long as it didn't interfere with his plan. 

He took one long pull on the drink as their waiter returned with the receipt. Jim stretched and spoke to the man conversationally. They seemed to be making pleasant, banal small talk as Jim rose to his feet and motioned for Mycroft to do the same. He paused, affecting a marginally embarrassed facade and tilted his head toward the door, like he didn't want to be overseen handing a wad of cash to their waiter. The man played perfectly and together, they made their way out the back. 

Mycroft schooled his features, projecting innocence and anxiety in a way that had gotten him out of tight spots before. Internally, excitement and tension was building. He knew it was only a matter of a few moments before Sebastian would suddenly appear, and then it would be over all too quickly. 

The alley was empty, fortunately, and though there was plenty of traffic passing on either side of the long block, no one was going to see them out here. Jim led the way, walking and chatting at the same time and motioning with one hand waving in the air unconcernedly for the waiter to follow, even though they had cleared the back door. 

When they were far enough away, just enough for the man to get impatient, Jim's fingers snapped. A great, big shadow flew out of the darkness beside them and plowed into the waiter, rushing him back into the darkness against the building on the opposite side. It was so fast and so hard that the man hadn't made a sound but for the air being knocked from his lungs. Seb had him on the ground, pinned with a knee at his back and a gag already around his mouth. 

A look of delight flickered across Mycroft's features. He hadn't spotted Sebastian before he'd made his dramatic entrance. He dashed closer and leaned so that he could catch a glimpse of the waiter's terrified face. 

And there it was: eyes wide with panic, mouth fighting against the gag, hands scrabbling against the ground in vain. Mycroft's breath left him in a sigh of pleasure. The waiter must have seen something odd in the boy's eyes, as he tried to scream around the gag.

Seb wrenched his arms behind his back and tied them together. Before he dragged the man to his feet, he caught Mycroft's eye and gave the boy a smile. Once the waiter was up and held firmly in place by Sebastian, Jim took over. 

"Let's take a walk," he said lightly and held his hand out for Mycroft to hold. He turned on his heel and began leading them down the alley while Seb shoved the man along behind them. 

He was whimpering, obviously frightened for his life, and walking shakily. 

Mycroft held on tight to Jim's hand. He actually hummed happily under his breath before he realized what he was doing and stopped. He shot Jim an embarrassed smile and glanced behind them to watch their victim walk to his own slaughter.

Jim chuckled softly beside him and squeezed his hand. 

Due to their strange antics, their captive was quieting into uncertainty. He couldn't know whether the two men and the boy intended to kill him, or whether he was about to take a beating for his presumptuousness in the restaurant. 

Finally, they reached the back of the convenience store Jim must have noted on the way in. Though the buildings towered above them, the bottom floors consisted of very pedestrian shops, fast food, bank outlets, jewelry…. They had to make it quick. There was no telling whether an employee would wander out here for a break. 

Jim stopped and Seb kicked the man's knees out from under him and pulled out the gun from his side. He hit the ground hard and it and Jim's wicked smile sent him into panic mode again. "You should learn to be tolerant, Mr… oh, I've forgotten your name," Jim sighed while Seb made certain the sound suppressor was secured. "You never know who you're going to piss off." 

Mycroft's gaze was fixed on the waiter, drinking in all of the emotions radiating off of him. It was the extremity of reactions that garnered most of his interest, not a fixation on the kill itself, or the gore. Mycroft crouched beside Jim in order to have a better view. There was no pity, no anxiety, just a terrible, blank curiosity and fascination. It was an expression familiar to the parents of peculiar small boys who caught insects and pulled their limbs off, one by one.

He was pleading through the gag, but the words were unintelligible. They would have nearly been anyway with his accent so heavy in English. His eyes darted from Mycroft to Jim and to Seb, holding the gun over him. The fear paralyzed him as much as knowing Seb would only strike him down again, and when Seb moved to Mycroft's side, motioning for him to hold out his hand and passing the gun to his, the waiter began to tremble violently. 

"Hold it like this," Seb placed the boy's hand around the gun properly. "This is the safety, it's off. Hold your arm out, aim straight ahead. Use your other hand to support it. There will be kick-back, it'll feel like the gun is rocking in your hand, just hold on and it'll be fine."

The man was caught between terror and what must have been a surreal sense of disbelief. Jim had gone around to his other side, opposite Sebastian, to whisper torments in the man's ear. It sounded like he was talking about Mycroft, and what he'd discovered Mycroft liked doing so much earlier that day. 

Mycroft spared Seb a glance and nodded to show he understood. The gun was heavier than he'd been expecting, even as small as it was. Using the sight and shooting would be easy enough, and there would be no missing at this range. Certainly not with the man as hobbled as he was. There would be no running away.

Mycroft licked his lips and waited for Jim to move out of the way. His eyes narrowed in pleasure at the look of despair the waiter gave him once Jim backed away. Mycroft raised the gun with both hands, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. There was a click from the suppressor, and the bound man went down with a hole through his forehead. Mycroft dashed forward as he toppled over and shot him once more through the head for good measure - one could never be too careful.

Behind him, Jim squealed with glee. The scuff of his shoes on the pavement preceded his arms around Mycroft and the press of lips to his cheek. 

"Time to move," Sebastian said and Jim let go so that they could hurry back down the alley. Seb had parked their car not far away, and Jim kept watch for security cameras as they rounded the corner of the sidewalk and street. He stopped them once and had them cross to the other side before they passed a bank, and then back again where they found their car. 

Between the whisky, two kills in one day, the new sexual elements in his life, and Jim's pleased, _proud_ reaction in the alleyway, Mycroft was floating on an extreme high. The world had gained more than a tinge of a surrealistic feel to it. It took the boy a moment to realize he still had the gun in his hand.

As they approached the car, Mycroft left Jim's side and tugged on the bodyguard's shirt to draw his attention. His borrowed weapon was offered up with a smile. "Thank you, Seb."

The man grinned wide and took it, hiding it back in his suit as he unlocked the door. Jim climbed in the back, tugging Mycroft's sleeve and the boy along after him. Seb fired the engine to life and they pulled out, leaving the restaurant and the body of its server in their wake.


	10. Chapter 10

Jim stretched like a sated animal beside Mycroft. " _That_ was a good night out, don't you think?" he cooed in the boy's ear. "Much better than 'dinner and a movie'." 

Jim was nearly bowled over as Mycroft launched himself at him. Small arms twined around Jim's chest as Mycroft pulled himself into the older man's lap. His giggles were almost hysterical, but _happy_. "So much better than a movie," he agreed. "Even dinner was fun." He could still smell the gunpowder.

Jim was stared up at him with his dark eyes. He looked a little mad around the edges, like Mycroft was growing into something amazing right before him and he was a witness to every step. His hands clutched the sides of the boy's face. "You are…extraordinary," Jim said.

Mycroft flushed with pleasure from the praise. It wasn't just that he was being permitted to do what he wanted without rebuke - it was that he could do it without shame, without living in fear. Jim was _proud_ of him, not mortified or trying to make him hide who he was or be someone else. Jim told him it was alright to be himself, even if other people might regard him as something monstrous and terrifying. "I'm a Holmes," he murmured, and gave Jim a self-deprecating smile. "We're supposed to be extraordinary."

Jim's mouth closed, but his smile didn't fade. He knew the family. He knew Mycroft's family now probably better than Mycroft did himself, at least what had become of them. Jim shook his head. "Apart from your brother and yourself, I have little interest in your family." 

His hand swept through Mycroft's hair, watching the play of his features after being told Jim had set him apart from them, that _he_ himself was the interesting one. 

Mycroft looked pleased for a moment before his expression gained a harder, more serious edge. "Good." He leaned into Jim's palm and regarded him solemnly. "Good. I don't want to share." Watching Sebastian with Jim had been difficult enough, now that he'd recognized a portion of his feelings for what they'd been. 

That set the gears turning in Jim's mind in regard to Sebastian and what he had deduced to have occurred in the restroom. Ideas were certainly coalescing in Jim’s head, but he didn't settle on any one completely before he pushed them to the back of his mind. "You don't have to, if you don't want to," was all he said. And the strange thing was, Jim probably meant it. He'd brought Mycroft up to a higher level than Sebastian already, and Jim hadn’t shown interest in anyone else. 

Mycroft seemed to sense where Jim's train of thought had gone. He glanced behind him, towards the driver's seat, before returning to meet Jim's gaze. His confusion and conflicting emotions were writ plain on his face. "I don't know yet. About him." Sebastian might be acceptable, depending on how things developed. What Mycroft _didn't_ want was for Jim to lose interest and decide to chase someone else. Like Sherlock. Losing Jim was unacceptable. "He might be alright. But nobody else."

Jim snorted through his nose. He leaned close. Seb probably hadn't heard Mycroft, but there was no way he was going to hear Jim. "Seb is not exactly my _preference_ anyway." 

That hadn't stopped Jim from indulging him just far enough to turn the tables back around though. Not to mention how much of a flirt Jim could be. And seeing Mycroft with Seb had apparently done something for him the morning he'd forced them into that situation. 

Mycroft nodded. He couldn't quite understand why, after what he'd seen earlier that day, but he supposed it didn't matter. His fingers drifted up and tangled in Jim's hair. "Do you mind sharing, even if I don't like sharing you?" As much as Mycroft was curious, he'd abandon that experiment before it began if threatened his relationship with Jim. Whatever the relationship actually _was_.

Jim laughed softly. "No, not with Seb. And not as long as I can _watch_ when the opportunity arises." Jim was confident enough in both of their infatuations with him that he allowed this. Perhaps that was even one of the reasons it intrigued him, or maybe just because Mycroft was so very small and Sebastian was quite the opposite. There could have been so many reasons, but there was no question that Jim, ultimately, held sway over them both. 

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at him. "...you want to _watch_?" Clearly the idea hadn't even occurred to the boy, even after Jim had made Sebastian kiss him that morning. He'd felt so uncomfortable watching the two men together that he'd automatically assumed Jim would be uneasy watching them together. Mycroft frowned and tried to figure out how he felt about the idea. "...why would you want to watch? You wouldn't get upset?"

"Oh no, not at all." Jim was smirking now, his eyes sparking with delight. " _He_ is mine, _you_ are mine. What reason would I have to be upset?" Obviously, he felt very secure in that position, or the idea never would have worked. "Besides…the two of you would look good together." 

Jim's answer left Mycroft flustered. He'd tried to follow Jim's logic, but he couldn't imagine having two people who belonged him and doing the same. Perhaps Jim was simply more secure overall, having had sufficient time to become so. Perhaps Mycroft's possessive streak was just too strong. 

And Jim's words had reminded him of another problem. "Maybe, but... he's..." Mycroft paused, wondering whether Jim was particularly sensitive about his size. "...a lot taller." 

Jim couldn't contain a giggle. "That's part of what makes it so attractive," Jim whispered with a devious look about him. "Don't worry. I'm sure you will figure something out." 

Sebastian was giving them narrow eyed and curious glances in the mirror. They must have sounded like two mischievous schoolboys from the snippets of conversation he was overhearing. 

Mycroft looked doubtful, but that would be a problem he could address when it came up. _If_ it came up. "Are we going back now? I know we were going to go look at some other places, but I'm starting to feel tired." It had been a long day, full of more activity and excitement than Mycroft was used to. 

"Mm," Jim's hand stroked the back of his neck and settled the boy against his chest. "We can head back. We have a very full day ahead of us tomorrow, too." Now that he was speaking at regular volume, all Jim needed to do to let Seb know was look at him in the mirror. The colonel flicked him a salute, and they made their way back to the hotel. 

Mycroft nodded and let himself drift. The hum of the car's engine was punctuated by the steady rhythm of Jim's heartbeat beneath his ear. Through the fatigue and the remaining alcohol buzz, Mycroft realized that was actually relaxed. Something minute had changed between Jim and himself. Mycroft still hadn't ruled out the possibility that Jim might grow tired of him, but he was no longer subconsciously watching for danger and betrayal. 

Jim's hands never stopped running through Mycroft’s hair. It was like a constant massage. It was surely conscious on his part, but it was also a sign of contentment. Jim was relaxed under him. He held the boy loosely in his arms and they were comfortable. 

When they did reach the hotel, it was hard to move from that spot. Seb dropped them off as close to the door as he could, and the man didn't try to hold back an amused smile at the two of them in the mirror. Jim glared at him in return, but there was no real threat behind it. He helped Mycroft off his lap and they climbed out, moving swiftly into the building. 

Mycroft kept tight hold of Jim's hand as they walked back to their unit. He was moving on automatic at this point. When they got through the door to the room, Mycroft headed to the bathroom only to realize, once he'd gotten there, that he didn't know where any of the toiletries were. He began to rummage through the drawers and the small bag that had been left on the counter in search of a toothbrush. 

"Whatever you're looking for, it'll be in the cupboard," Jim called from the hall. He was doing something in the kitchen. Unlike most hotels, this one turned out to be stocked with everyday items, which Jim had probably accounted for, just like the jet. 

It wasn't long before the door opened again and Seb joined them. His unmistakable footsteps wandered off to the kitchen to join Jim, and though they weren't speaking particularly softly, their voices sounded like murmurs from that far away. 

Mycroft found new toothbrushes and a tube of paste right where Jim had said they'd be. He strained to try to listen in on the two men as he brushed his teeth, but eventually gave it up as a lost cause. He removed the tie around his neck and washed his face. After he was dried off, Mycroft turned to regard himself in the mirror.

He didn't look as different as he felt. There was the livid bite mark, that was true, but Mycroft couldn't look at himself and immediately tell that his whole life had completely changed. Mycroft touched the mark and wondered what Sherlock was doing a world away.

Mycroft turned off the light and padded out to join Jim and Seb in the kitchen.

He found them leaning against the countertops drinking tea. They'd left a mug for him as well, and it was still hot. It wasn't the English tea they were all accustomed to, but rather an Indian brand that was every bit as flavorful. 

"Drink up," Jim said, "or you'll end up with a headache tomorrow." 

Seb smirked behind his cup, knowing that Mycroft probably needed it. Jim too, even though the little criminal was good at hiding it. 

Mycroft grabbed the mug and settled in between both men. They made quite a sight, both of them dwarfing the boy. Mycroft gave the liquid a tentative sip. He must have decided that it was acceptable, as he kept drinking without complaint. "What were you talking about?"

"Tomorrow," Jim sighed. It looked like he was finally getting tired too, or maybe it was the alcohol affecting him. "If you want to see anything, we'll need to be close by when Seb takes the shot. Which means it will have to be outside. Which means the best location will be when our marks check in to their hotels, which, fortunately, we now know the names of." 

"What are you going to do?" Mycroft asked Seb. "Snipe them from a rooftop?" That was the most sensible way, if the targets were going to be outside and among a crowd of people. It made it difficult to view the kill in any detail, however. And if they were going to be outside for it, that meant enduring the desert sun and heat.

"Yes. Basically. Should be a simple job, but I'll have to scope the place in the morning. That means you should get whatever shopping you need to do done by the afternoon. I'll have to move quickly between one target and the other, before the second is notified. No more than 20-30 minutes." 

"That means we'll be in disguise," Jim added. His smile suggested that this was one of his favorite parts. 

Mycroft brightened. "So we get to shop for disguises, too? What are we going to go as?" Playing family would be the safest way, but Mycroft imagined they'd have a hard time convincing anyone that he and Jim were related. He didn't speak a word of the local language, or any Middle Eastern language for that matter, so it'd be difficult to pretend he was a local unless he played shy. Or mute. 

"Women," Jim said simply. It was the easiest, quickest, and probably only disguise they could get away with without Mycroft knowing the language. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to do much talking anyhow since Jim was there. 

He finished his tea and rinsed the cup, stretching his shoulders at the sink. 

"I'll finish up plans for tomorrow. You two should get some sleep." Seb must have noticed Jim's fatigue as well. 

The little criminal didn't look too happy about the observation, but he acquiesced. "I'll look it over in the morning, then." And with that, he brushed Mycroft's shoulder with his hand, beckoning the boy to follow, and made his way down the hall. 

Mycroft gave Seb a smile and set his mug down before he followed after Jim. Jim was already in the bedroom when Mycroft caught up. The boy began to work at getting out of his formal layers of clothing. He watched Jim do the same, and another smile curled the corners of his mouth as fabric parted and revealed the mark he'd made on the older man. _His_ mark.

Jim gave him a knowing look when he saw where Mycroft's gaze had landed. He stripped down to his underwear and laid his clothes neatly over a chair before pulling back the bedcovers and inviting the boy to join him. When Mycroft climbed up after him, Jim pulled him down, chest to chest, and kissed him fondly. 

Mycroft didn't hesitate tonight. He snuggled up against Jim and basked in the warmth granted by having another body so close. He returned Jim's kiss with languid ease, gazing back at him with the adoration of the newly smitten. Jim had a dusting of dark stubble now, but somewhat surprisingly, it didn't change his appearance that much.

When they'd settled comfortably, they were side by side with Jim's arms wrapped around Mycroft. He was light enough to be held easily, without cutting off the flow of blood to Jim's arm. 

It must have been unusual for Jim to share his bed with anyone, but he fell into it naturally. Maybe it was simply Mycroft. Jim was allowing him to see parts of his life that no one else could, to be with him in a way that no one else was permitted to be. Jim stroked his thumb against Mycroft's cheek, enjoying the soft skin under his hand. 

Unless Jim had completely dropped another life he'd led before Mycroft arrived and decided to keep it hidden from the boy, he seemed to lead a very isolated existence. 

"Is this what you do all the time?" Mycroft's question was barely above a whisper, but it was loud in comparison to the silence it had broken. "Just you and Sebastian?" It didn't seem that strange to Mycroft that Jim would sequester himself away from the general human population. One might as well ask an eagle if it felt lonely, perched up in an aerie instead of mingling and interacting with the herbivores on the ground. 

"Sebastian is the only one who knows who I am, yes." Jim's voice was as soft as Mycroft's. "But he is not the only person I work with. Not by far. Everyone else just gets an act. They don't know who the real Moriarty is. They get one of his associates, lackeys, or even competitors as times, and all of them are me." 

"Don't you get bored, though, doing everything by yourself? I always preferred to stay inside and study by myself, but even I got tired of that and went into town every once in a while." The local children had been dull as rocks, and frightened of him, and their interactions had always been overshadowed by the watchful eye of a bodyguard, but Mycroft had managed to bribe a few youths into spending some time with him. Candy and trinkets had bought him some small amount of human interaction.

Jim shrugged one shoulder. "If I get bored, I can usually send someone else in to pass along whatever message I need to. The interesting bit is coming up with creative solutions to dull problems, and then watching them play out. Every once in a while, I find a truly extraordinary one, but mostly it's just the same. People want money, people want success, people want to get rid of their problems… Even on the national level it can become dreary, governments covering up the same secrets over the same war they've been fighting for decades, every year spun as though it were new."

That sounded familiar. "Why even work on dull problems? I mean..." Mycroft paused and tried to find the right words for the concept he wanted to convey. "People will always want more money and power and things, but those are usually boring. It's more fun to play with people themselves. Dangle a prize above their heads that they can never reach, play on their fears until they jump at every shadow, plant information and watch different groups tear each other apart for no real reason. Why play someone else's game when you can make your own?"

Jim's lips curled into a feral smile. "You're on the right track. And that is exactly how I crush my opponents. But anyone running any venture in business must be careful to create a name for themselves, a polished reputation. If I do crush them, _when_ I do - and make no mistake, I do so often - it must be done anonymously or in a way that would only heighten the fear of governments around the globe." 

Jim's words sparked another thought. "Is that what we were doing, before?" Mycroft asked. It made a certain amount of sense - he'd been working at, presumably, a very high level within the British government. "You were playing against Britain, and I caught you? Or did you let yourself get caught as part of a game, and I was the one they sent to try to figure out why?"

Jim's smile turned softer. "Both. I was playing against Britain, with the added benefit of drawing you out to let you catch me. I _rarely_ do anything for only one reason." He pressed his lips to the boy's chastely and stroked a hand down Mycroft's back. It broke the moment somewhat, reminding them that they were in a different place now, that Mycroft was lying in Jim's bed a whole continent away. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and smiled in the way that only children do - an unselfconscious expression of happiness that overflowed and made the skin seem to glow. He tucked himself under Jim's chin and settled down to sleep. Whatever the reasons, Mycroft was glad things were different. "G'night, Jim," he mumbled.

Jim’s chest rose and fell against him as he breathed in deeply. His arms squeezed tightly around Mycroft before loosening again, just to make him feel secure. Jim was doing more of those things now, naturally, when he hadn't been before. Jim was always expressive, but he was becoming more attuned to the boy. He settled in and his warm breath brushed softly against Mycroft's forehead. 

"Good night."

* * *

Mycroft dropped off into slumber quickly. His first dream was as disjointed and nonsensical as dreams usually were. The one that followed was its exact opposite - sharp and disturbingly realistic.

Mycroft had slipped out of the country house to have a bit of fun in town. He'd known that he'd get reprimanded for his careless disobedience once his absence was noticed, but he'd had enough of behaving. His marks with his tutors were excellent, and he hadn't done anything particularly embarrassing or dangerous for a few weeks. He figured he deserved a treat.

The day had been filled with a game of petty theft - hanging out with the local kids, daring one another into pranks and jokes and a little shoplifting. They'd been most impressed at Mycroft's skill at pickpocketing, asking him to retrieve objects from their pockets without them noticing. All in all, it had been a pleasant diversion from the strict schedule of the last few days.

Mycroft knew something was terribly wrong when the town's ambulance tore down the main street, siren wailing, heading in the direction of home.

Jim's eyes snapped open when a small body pressed against him shifted and tightened into itself. He tensed for a moment as well, but quickly recovered his bearings and realized, unusual as it was to have company, that it was Mycroft lying with him in bed. The boy's twitches had awoken him, and it didn't look like was going to relax anytime soon. His eyes were moving rapidly below his eyelids and his breathing was deep.

Everything was confusing bits and pieces, a flurry of activity as medical staff bustled around the premises. Police blocked off the boundaries and swept through the grounds, and his parents' private security team yelled in rage and frustration at the sheer number of new faces and security breaches. Mycroft wandered right in without anyone taking the slightest notice.

The den was a mess. Shattered glass still covered portions of the floor, along with the remnants of an experiment, and bullet holes dotted pieces of the wood paneling. The attack hadn't happened that long ago; Mycroft got an eyeful of what was left of Sigur Holmes and, a few feet away, his assassin. One of the officers yelled and yanked him out of the room, and everything turned numb. Mycroft was asked a flurry of questions, half of which he didn't even hear, and a nurse brought him a bitter, oversteeped cup of tea.

It was hours before the crowd began to clear out, taking the plastic-wrapped remains with them. Sherlock was still missing and the police had decided to move their search out into the fields and woods. His mother was taking care of business, which left Mycroft alone in the empty silence and gloom.

He was drawn back into the den, unable to keep away. After a moment of staring at the stains covering in the floor, now darkened as the blood had oxidized, Mycroft drew a deep breath. On an impulse, he walked over to the cabinet that had so often been Sherlock's favorite hiding place.

He crouched down and opened it, and two tearful grey eyes stared back at him. It took a few minutes to coax Sherlock out and assure him that it was safe now. Once his brother crawled out of his hiding place he clung to Mycroft, shivering and refusing to let go.

Mycroft curled tighter around Jim with an unhappy sound.

Mycroft was having a very painful dream indeed, that was clear. Jim cocked his head and surveyed every unconscious movement the boy made in this state. His arms were still wrapped around him, keeping him warm and in what should have been a comforting presence, but the dream was too strong for it to matter. 

Jim didn't make any move to wake him. He was too curious over what was going on in Mycroft's head to interrupt it. The boy hadn't dreamt like that a night ago, when he had every reason to fear for his life as he lay next to Jim. 

Mycroft had no idea what to do. He'd tried to call their mother, but either she couldn't answer the phone at that moment or she was ignoring the call. He was just coming to terms with the fact that their father was dead, that he'd seen Sigur's brains splattered across the table where they'd done so many projects together, but Sherlock had _seen it happen_. And said that there had been more than one man. Which meant there was at least one more assassin wandering around.

Looking for them.

Mycroft finally convinced Sherlock to climb up onto his back, rather than clinging to his leg and hobbling him. They'd gone through the house, checking the locks and covering the windows. They'd gathered a few blankets, Mycroft had found a couple of the family guns, and they'd raided the kitchen for food. The brothers had constructed a makeshift tent out of blankets and chairs, giving them both the illusion of security, then hid inside their private partition of reality. Mycroft read Sherlock fairy tales until his brother dropped off to sleep, but he couldn't sleep. He wouldn't. He sat in the dark, rifle cradled in his lap and listening to the house settle, and knew on some level that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

Mycroft opened his eyes and expected the darkness, the quiet, even the body curled up next to him. But his companion was too big.

"What were you dreaming about?" A soft, male voice whispered above him, owned by a pair of large, black eyes fixed on him. Those eyes seemed to take up most of the man's face and, since there was no light, they looked like two pits of darkness so deep they were bottomless. 

Mycroft froze in fear before he remembered where he was. _Who_ this was. "...I... it was strange. I was back with my parents and Sherlock, at the country house. I snuck out for the day, and when I got back daddy had been shot in the head. And nobody could find Sherlock, but I did once everyone was gone, but mummy had left, so I had to do everything myself. And Sherlock had seen it happen and was scared, and I was the only one there, so I got the guns and tried to make him feel better."

Jim's lips parted and his expression gradually went blank. "Your father did die with a bullet to the head. Assassinated in his own home." Jim's eyes stared into him like he was trying to extract the dream right out of his mind. "Mycroft…you're remembering."

Mycroft frowned. "It did seem different, but... isn't that impossible? I thought... everyone seemed to think that my mind was gone, erased, reset." The idea brought a whole other set of worries, clouding his grey eyes with fear. 

What if it continued? What if he started remembering everything? What if it ruined things, if Jim no longer wanted him around? "...I don't want to remember, though."

Jim found, for once, he didn't have an answer to that. He pulled Mycroft tighter against him. 

Truthfully, he didn't want Mycroft to remember either. Jim had taken him, Jim had _stolen_ him and he was Jim's now. Mycroft, with his cleverness and his brilliance and his sweetly deviant desires, unbridled by time, had somehow wormed his way into Jim's heart enough to make the criminal _want_ him. And _wanting_ was the hardest of all. Jim was not ready to give him up to a whole lifetime of difference. 

"If you find yourself remembering anything more, you need to tell me."

Mycroft found himself tearing up in spite of himself. This was a different sort of fear than his normal paranoia. Everything he knew about his previous life made him not want to go back. "I will, but- ...please don't send me away, Jim. If I remember more. Please? I want to stay with you." Where he was wanted because of who he was, not in spite of it.

Drops of wetness fell against Jim's bare skin. The man buried his nose in Mycroft's hair. "I won't send you away," he whispered. As long as Mycroft wanted to be there, Jim wouldn't send him away, but he had his own set of worries to deal with now. 

If Mycroft regained his memory, it was very likely that he would not wish to stay. Jim had taken full advantage of him like this, and he would know it. Mycroft was so attached to him now because he had no one else, and while the similarities which had been brought to light between them would remain, Jim had no doubt that duty to his brother, his former life, and his country, if not resentment for the way Jim had used him, would pull the boy away from him. 

The truth was, Mycroft would be the one to leave him. 

Or stay just long enough to pry the last secrets out of Jim and then use them against him. 

Jim wrapped his arms tighter. By a twist of fate and an experiment gone so perfectly wrong, he had let himself want what seemed like a miracle and a sure thing. With this revelation, what he'd let in could turn on him just as quickly. And still, he wanted the boy Mycroft had become. 

Mycroft was put into the bizarre position of experiencing his dream inversed - instead of being stuck in the position of comforter and protector, he now sought both of those things. Judging from the way Jim was holding him and the man's rapid pulse, he was just as upset as his young ward. 

"Please." Mycroft didn't even know what he was asking for, exactly. Forgiveness, pleading not to be rejected, a request for reassurance that Jim wasn't angry and wasn't going to close himself off. "I'll try not to remember."

Jim ran his hands over Mycroft's back. "You're here with me now. I won't let you go. By all accounts, you shouldn't be _able_ to remember. When we get back to England, I'm going to see if I can't find out what happened you." 

Jim was already planning the tests he would run. He was not a neuroscientist by profession, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be able to learn what he needed to, and quickly. After first the accident and then assuming the damage was irreparable, those idiots Mycroft worked with in the government obviously did not grasp the science of what they'd done.

It took a goodly amount of time for Jim's soothing words and gestures to stick and calm Mycroft down. Gradually Jim felt the tension ease from the boy's frame and his breathing began to slow, though Mycroft still refused to let go. There was nothing for it but to put his faith in the older man and take him at his word. Perhaps Jim would even be able to figure out how to stop the memories from returning.

Jim held Mycroft just as closely. He was still and calm, and the gentle strokes of his fingers at the nape of Mycroft's neck were soothing, but inside his brain was whirring like mad. 

He needed to understand what had happened to Mycroft, whether his brain had been damaged - which meant it was likely trying to heal, and could possibly do so over time - or whether it had structurally regressed to that of his twelve year old self, as his body had seemed to. If that were the case, he should not be able, physiologically, to regain his memories, as they simply would not be there. If the latter was the case, the dream might have been a latent part of his old makeup, randomly and accidentally stored during the regression. Right now, that was the best they could hope for. 

Jim slowed his breathing and took comfort in the weight of the small body at his side, but he would not fall asleep again that night. 

Mycroft eventually drifted off in Jim's arms. Sleep came dreamlessly this time, and he passed the rest of the night undisturbed. He woke to find Jim still wrapped around him. The criminal must have heard and felt his breathing change, but Mycroft tightened his arms anyways, alerting Jim to the fact that he was awake again. "Mornin'." He shifted until he could look Jim in the eye and gave him a tentative smile.

Jim returned it, gazing down at the boy in a way that made it impossible to tell whether he had gone back to sleep and awoken early or whether he hadn't slept at all. He didn't look too tired, at least. The way his mind worked, all that thinking left him with a manic edge, but he seemed to soften for the boy. 

"Good morning. You seem to have slept better." 

Mycroft nodded. "Didn't dream about anything else." Small fingers reached up and stroked Jim's cheek, now sporting a sandpaper texture with his stubble. Mycroft didn't quite dare kiss him, not with morning breath. "Thanks for staying with me. Even if I wasn't awake for it." 

Mycroft felt... not _better_ , not exactly, but a bit more hopeful now that he'd had a few more hours of sleep. Things would work out. They were both vastly more intelligent than the average person. If Jim kept his word, they could work together and puzzle out what was going on. 

Jim nodded. He could see the relief and small bit of hope welling within Mycroft eyes. He had come to similar conclusions last night, that further observation was required. "Mmmm…" he stretched and fell back onto the pillow as though he didn't want to get up. He was, in spite of his lack of sleep, quite content to lie in bed with the boy he didn't want to lose. He shut his eyes and his thumb trailed over Mycroft's shoulder. 

Outside, they could hear Seb moving about in the kitchen.

The lines of Jim's body opened up as he uncoiled and relaxed, laying bare vulnerable planes of skin and muscle. Mycroft shifted until he was partially atop his companion. He studied the sight in front of him, the rise and fall of Jim's chest, and licked his lips. 

It was telling that Mycroft was still uncertain where things stood between them; when he moved, he was lacking the predatory boldness that had been present the previous day. The boy pressed a kiss to Jim's neck, then the mark he'd left on his shoulder, and let his mouth continue trailing down.

"Mmmm…" Jim hummed again, eyes still closed, soaking up the affection and the feel of Mycroft's soft lips against his skin, tickling and exciting the flesh they passed over. A light trail of goosebumps followed in his wake and Jim stretched even farther to give him more access. 

If Jim’s pleasantly open reaction to his kisses was any indication, he was not yet having second thoughts about keeping Mycroft around. 

Mycroft ducked under the covers and swiped his tongue across the hollow just below Jim's waist. The resulting hum he earned in response was encouraging, as was the heated length sudden vying for attention beside his ear. Mycroft stroked a hand down Jim's cock and watched the man's hips tilt instinctively.

No second thoughts. Not in this, at least. Mycroft hesitated, then kissed the crown that was sticky with precome. The taste still took some getting used to.

Jim _groaned_ that time. The line of his body tightened, just waiting for Mycroft to finish what he'd started, but Jim's hands didn't come down and force him. The heightened sound of his breathing and the way his muscles constricted were Mycroft's only encouragements.   
Mycroft had to throw the covers back a bit in order to get enough air. He glanced up past a messy tangle of red hair. Jim's expression brought a smile to his face and some measure of reassurance; he still wanted this.

Mycroft only had his brief experience from the previous day to draw on, but he remembered to protect his teeth this time. His jaw stretched as he went down. He couldn't go very far, but from the sound Jim made in response to a mouth on his cock, he didn't _have to_. Mycroft gave him an experimental suck and watched the muscles in Jim's stomach ripple and tighten.

"Ngh, _fuck_ My…" Jim's speech grew broken, more like pants and groans than words. His hips desperately sought more of Mycroft's wet, sucking mouth, and Jim's hand came down to grasp loosely at the back of his neck. The way his fingers pressed into Mycroft's hair, the more insistent they became, the more he knew Jim was telling him he was doing something well. Jim didn't try to force him down even though he must have wanted to. Mycroft's explorations, tentative as they were, were quite a tease. 

It was exactly what Mycroft needed. Even with Jim's verbal promise that he wasn't going to get rid of him, he needed something more. He needed to _see_ it. See that he was still wanted.

Mycroft let Jim's fingers guide him, noting every time they pressed or tangled in his hair. He tried taking Jim deeper, only to have to pull back suddenly as his throat closed up in rebellion and left him coughing. He spat on his hand instead and started again, this time using his fingers to stroke the rest of Jim's shaft that he couldn't take.

That did the trick. 

Jim's neck arched and his mouth fell open a little. The hand in Mycroft's hair tightened immediately, encouraging him into a rhythmic motion with his mouth and fingers. Jim's other hand came up to pet the hair back from Mycroft's face once he’d composed himself enough to look down again. 

Mycroft looked like an angel bathed in the morning sunlight, tangled in sheets just a shade whiter than his skin. The boy was quickly acquiring a pink flush with the effort, and it made him look simply delectable. 

It took most of Mycroft’s concentration to keep the rhythm and remember all the little things - to cover the teeth, when to breathe, how much suction to give, how and where to stimulate with his tongue. He was already starting to learn to read other small signs to know how well he was doing. More than the small sounds of pleasure and the hands caressing his hair, he could see when Jim's diaphragm tightened and feel when his cock hardened further on his tongue.

Mycroft looked up as Jim brushed his hair away from his face. He watched Jim watch himself disappear.

Jim was gasping. He and Mycroft were staring at each other as the boy worked him over. He looked so beautiful, with his desperate and desirous eyes pleading with Jim and trying to own Jim at the same time. The want for him was consuming the criminal. And, even though it was dangerous, Jim found himself giving into it. He was letting himself go, letting himself _desire_ this boy who could turn on him at any time, even if he didn't want to now. 

And, like everything, Jim decided then that if this want were to be his weakness, then he would wield it with such power that it became a maelstrom _no one_ could control, and no one could use it against him. 

This boy would be his, or he would tear the world apart. 

Mycroft's eyes darkened as he watched Jim falling to pieces. The idea that he could take a man like this, liquid darkness wrapped in human skin, and make him pant with desire was... intoxicating. And perhaps that was the solution - Mycroft could make himself such a focus, such a treasured thing that giving him up was unthinkable. That getting rid of him would break Jim with the sacrifice, so Jim never would. He would tie them together with clever hooks and bonds until they couldn't be separated, and then he'd get to keep Jim.

Mycroft redoubled his efforts and quickened the pace, staring back at Jim all the while. He wanted to see this. He needed at least the illusion of control.

Jim's body tightened. His back arched, his shoulders thrust back into the mattress. The hand that wasn't clutching at the back of Mycroft's head was fisted in the sheets at his side, and suddenly Jim was coming. With a long, high whine in the back of his throat, Jim found his release. Hot bursts of fluid filled Mycroft's mouth and Jim seemed determined to keep him there with the firm pressure of his palm until it was over. 

Mycroft had felt Jim's muscles contracting, but it was still a surprise when he suddenly had hot, salty liquid on his tongue. Jim was still coming, twitching in his mouth and hand holding him in place, and there was nothing else for it but to swallow or choke. Mycroft's eyebrows drew together at the taste, but he managed. Another second or two and it was over. Mycroft gave him one last gentle suck and released him. He wiped his reddened mouth with the back of his hand and glanced back up at Jim.

The man hooked his hands under Mycroft's arms and pulled him up to Jim's breathless, heaving chest. He was still panting, but he kissed Mycroft with such force it was dizzying, bordering on violent. In the next instant, he broke away just enough to leave their lips touching and his fingers playing delicately through ginger hair. 

"My beautiful boy," Jim whispered, "I won't ever let you go." 

Relief swept across Mycroft's features. He could do this. Jim would be his. "I don't want you to," he whispered back and twined his arms around Jim's neck. "No matter what happens." For the moment, it was true. Mycroft couldn't say if he'd remember anything more, or if the memories would change anything, but he couldn't imagine that he could remember anything that would make him want to destroy this.

It was a moment more before Jim heartbeat slowed. Once it had, he wrapped Mycroft in his arms and lifted the boy off the bed. He was big enough that it wasn't effortless, but Jim had one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders and with Mycroft’s arms around his neck, Jim carried him with ease to the shower stall. 

He set the boy down outside it and turned on the spray, waiting for it to steam. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft from behind, kissing his temple and his ear and his neck and just about everywhere he could reach. 

Mycroft giggled and soaked up the attention. The day was already off to a good start, and his feeling of optimism was growing. "Is this what I get every time I do that?" he asked, turning his head to give Jim a teasing grin. "Should I make a note? 'Morning blowjobs make Jim cheerful'." Semen had tasted completely different than he'd imagined, and Mycroft wasn't sure he'd ever like it, but the older man's reaction was making his efforts well worth a sore jaw and a funny taste in his mouth.

Jim smirked against his throat. "You might keep that in mind," he said before he pulled the boy into the shower. The spray of water hit them like rain. The showerhead was large and could fit both of them beneath it without trouble. The water was nearly too hot at first, sending goosebumps down Mycroft's arms that Jim chased with his hands, but quickly became soothing as they acclimated to the heat. 

It was as relaxing as being in bed, warmth all around them, the water massaging their shoulders and sliding across every inch of skin. Jim sunk to his knees, following along with the water as it flowed down Mycroft's body. Jim's hands trailed down his sides. His mouth made a path down the middle of the boy's chest, tickling his skin with Jim's stubble as he went. 

Mycroft watched Jim's descent with half-lidded eyes. His lips parted in a gasp when Jim paused over one patch of skin and grazed him with his teeth. Mycroft was having difficulty in concentrating on anything but the sensation, including giving much thought to his balance. He leaned back and rested his shoulders against the tiles.

Even knowing what was coming, he whimpered and shut his eyes as Jim stopped just short of his cock, teasing with breath alone.

Jim's hands fell to his arse cheeks and kneaded the flesh suggestively while a toothy smile played over his lips. He gazed up at Mycroft, making sure he was watching before Jim's tongue emerged and lapped against his cock. The sensation was teasing, but Jim knew what kind of sight he was making with his tongue rubbing over and around and under the boy's hardness until, finally, he wrapped his lips around it. He _sucked_ and breathed in the scent of Mycroft’s skin, dulled as it was in the water. Jim was enjoying the exploration of his body almost as much as Mycroft was. He was taking his time, eyes open all the while to study every inch of skin he encountered. 

It might have been Jim's method of thanking Mycroft, but from the way the man was enjoying it, he might have been planning the shower since they'd gone to bed the night before. 

All the breath went out of Mycroft, watching Jim touch and explore and taste. There was almost a worshipful air to it. Mycroft still was having trouble believing that he could cause the older man to do _this_ \- go down on his knees, _want_ to touch him in this way. 

As careful as Jim had been the first time, this was still different. Their first time had felt much more about what Jim wanted. Now that they'd decided that they both wanted a relationship, there was more balance. 

Mycroft was small enough that Jim had no difficulty swallowing him whole. The boy's hands automatically laced through Jim's hair to anchor himself. He felt a fingertip trace down the cleft of his arse and his hips jerked in response.

A rumbling moan signaled Jim's pleased amusement, thrilling at Mycroft's eagerness. As much as Jim wanted to have the boy, it was clear that he loved it even more when Mycroft wanted it too. The hesitation was gone, and Jim rewarded him with languid swirls of his tongue and the pressure of a finger over the ring of muscle between his legs which, slowly, ever so slowly, eased inside of him. 

Jim's other hand held his hip, and although there wasn't much danger of him choking Jim with a thrust, it did help Mycroft's balance on the tile floor. It felt like being in a waterfall, hot and dizzying and soothing all at once with the shower head raining lightly down on them both and helping Jim's progress just enough without lube. 

Water didn't do much to ease the penetration. As much as the heat and wetness of Jim's mouth on his cock was distracting, Mycroft still felt every last millimeter as Jim's finger pushed into him. Mycroft's breathing was coming in short, shaky bursts now, and the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears made a counterpoint to the patter of water from the showerhead. He inched his legs apart a bit more.

Mycroft looked down at Jim, at the man whose dark gaze swept over him with a hungry glint and who held his cock in a mouth full of sharp teeth, and it didn't matter that Jim was frightening. He was losing his fear, piece by piece, because even though Jim could easily rip him apart, he wouldn't. That wasn't what he wanted.

Jim looked up at Mycroft, like he might have been reading the boy's mind, but it was right before he pushed his finger in a little farther, bent it just a little more, and found that spot in him with absolute precision, much in the way Jim did everything. Once he was there, Jim didn't need to move in and out as much as simply curl the digit and stroke exactly where he wanted, in counterpoint to the suction of his mouth. 

Jim was amazingly gentle. As violent and explosive as he could be elsewhere, here, alone with Mycroft, he was very aware of each sensation he was sending along the boy's nerve endings, be it the burn of the strong muscle wrapped around Jim's finger, or the electric high of that place Jim brushed inside him. 

Electric was the right word for it. Mycroft moaned and shivered, and his fingers tightened in Jim's hair. Between the way Jim was sucking at him and the careful strokes of a finger, Mycroft was overwhelmed. Jim was able to watch him start to fall to pieces, bit by bit, sharp grey eyes turning cloudy with desire as they locked gazes. Mycroft sucked in a breath between his teeth and started babbling, pleas for more interspersed with a mindless repetition of Jim's name.

Jim broke their gaze and gave in. The pace of his finger quickened while he drew out the suction of his mouth. Deeper, harder, he swallowed the boy over and over again. The stubble around his mouth grazed against Mycroft's hairless flesh, scratchy and ticklish and a strange, sharp point of contrast to the other sensations Jim was wringing out of him. 

Jim’s head tilted to get a better angle, increasing the pressure and adding a little twist at the end of every stroke of his tongue. 

Mycroft cried out and writhed as he climaxed. His hold on Jim's hair became painful and his muscles tightened around Jim's finger in waves, only stimulating himself more as it caused the digit to tap rhythmically against his prostate. Mycroft's cock twitched on Jim's tongue, but he was still too young for Jim to have a chance to mirror what the boy had done for him earlier. 

Jim let him ride through it until Mycroft was bent over him and panting. He slipped his finger free and licked his lips before pulling back and looking up at Mycroft. A sly, satisfied grin spread over Jim's face as he stared up at the boy and what he had done to him. 

Jim’s hands rose and brushed wet tendrils of hair out of Mycroft's face, just to see him better. Jim seemed perfectly content to remain kneeling on the floor while Mycroft caught his breath. Positioned as they were, Mycroft was taller than Jim, but his features remained unmistakably that of a child. Jim must have been relishing the sight for it to keep him down there. 

"You can't tell me you're not beautiful," Jim whispered. 

The look Mycroft gave Jim in return could only be described as intense. Jim had seen that expression on a Holmes before - complete fixation and dedication to an object of interest. Even when viewed from afar, the way Sherlock burned with excitement and pure focus when he stumbled across an intriguing puzzle couldn't be missed. It was tangible enough to thicken the air and intimidate those around him.

Mycroft had the same glint in his grey eyes as he stared down at Jim. There wasn't just passion, but iron determination. He moved forward and settled on Jim's lap, staring up at the older man for a moment before he pulled Jim's head down and claimed his lips.

Jim smiled all the way through the kiss. He soaked up Mycroft's intensity like he couldn't get enough. He fed off it, basked in it, _reveled_ in it. 

Their lips broke apart, but neither could break their gaze. Their hands were in each other’s' hair, down each other’s backs, roaming and gliding and simply _feeling_ that the other was there and solid. They were forging memories together. Every new hour that passed between them seemed to surpass the last, but this one, this moment, would last for a very long time.

Jim was a gift, after the coldness and isolation that had been enforced by Mycroft's family and his own intellect. The monster under the bed had snatched him away and turned out to be his best friend. The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched into a smirk at the mental image that thought had conjured: Jim as the quintessential devil's advocate, all fangs and sleek horns and tapered, clawed hands, packaged in expensive, infernal haute couture.

Which reminded him. "Weren't we going to shop for clothes? I _do_ actually need some." 

Jim's answering grin turned mischievous. "I might have a few objections to that… If I didn't find the idea of stripping you out of that suit so alluring." 

Mycroft was right, however. Besides the time they'd taken getting out of bed that morning, they did have things to do, and the shower was becoming more like a sauna. Seb would carry out the job even if Jim decided to abandon all plans just to stay in with Mycroft for the entire day, but Mycroft had wanted to see what they could of the assassinations in action.

Jim sighed and placed one last kiss on the boy's lips. "Alriiiight," his voice hit that whining, lilting pitch it so often did before he rose to turn off the water. 

Mycroft laughed in response; Jim's lilt was endearing when he wasn't hiding it. Or exaggerating it for effect. "I'm not going anywhere. We'll have time to do other things after we watch Seb get rid of the two targets, won't we?" He took the towel Jim offered him. "Besides, you're paying for my clothes. You can buy extra things that you want to see me in."

Mycroft didn't have much experience with what those sorts of things might be, but he'd heard enough to know that specialty clothing did exist, and that adults bought and wore things for the people they were dating. _Dating_ , Mycroft mouthed silently, and frowned. "...Jim, are we dating?" 

Jim turned just enough to peer over his shoulder. He shot a curious look at the boy that wasn't quite here or there, as though Jim too might have been just as perplexed at the idea. 

"Can so common a word be used to describe this?" Jim countered Mycroft's question with one of his own, but from the way his eyes drifted, he was giving it at least a moment's serious thought. "If so, then yes, we must be 'dating'," he said, enunciating with precision as if the word were cumbersome in his mouth. "…and so much more." The bitter turn of his mouth quirked into a smile at the end. 

Mycroft shrugged; semantics probably didn't matter much. From Jim's reaction, he'd gathered that this wasn't just new for _him_. "I was just curious. I don't know what we're supposed to do. Other than whatever we feel like doing." 

He didn't even really know whether relationships between two men followed the same parameters as those projected by mainstream culture. Mycroft's parents had been anything but conventional, despite the proper appearances presented to the outside world, and Mycroft hadn't encountered much aside from gay porn when he'd first felt brave enough to look for materials. Gay porn, and moral ranting, and terrifying literature on diseases.

"Then do what you feel like doing." Jim toweled off and wrapped it around his waist. He went to the mirror and, finally, began to get rid of the growing stubble on his chin. He was quick about it, and somewhat careless. He stared at himself in the mirror with a sort of wary, bug-eyed expression, his head tilting this way and that, like the man on the other side might reach out for him at any moment. 

When Jim was finished, he stepped back and went to find the suit he'd set aside the previous day.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft finished drying himself and wandered back into the bedroom, towel draped over his slender shoulders. He gathered together the garments strewn about and decided there weren't many options. A sniff of his old clothes had him wrinkling his nose, which left him with the suit from the night before. Mycroft dressed in the trousers and shirt, but left off the other layers and tie - extra layers just meant it would be that much easier to get overheated, here, and it was restrictive besides.

After a moment of pondering, Mycroft decided to leave the top two shirt buttons undone. Jim was going to be different from anyone else he'd tried teasing and playing mind games with, but that would make this experiment all the more interesting.

Jim brushed a hand along Mycroft's shoulders as he passed. It might have been an absent gesture - Jim's fingers liked to find contact with the boy wherever they were, no matter the situation. The extra bit of skin at Mycroft’s collar only served to encourage casual touch. 

Something delicious was wafting from the main suite and permeating the air as soon as Jim had the door open and, sure enough, as the two made their way into the next room they found Seb at the dining table, working something out over a laptop with several large plates of fresh omelets beside him.

"Ah, breakfast!" Jim chimed so loudly it should have startled the other man, had he not heard them coming. 

Mycroft eyed the omelets dubiously. He hadn't forgotten their discussion about Sebastian's cooking skills. Still, Mycroft imagined that it was difficult to get eggs wrong... or at least so wrong as to be inedible. Or perhaps Sebastian had ordered out for these as well, and the hotel's room service had willingly complied.

Mycroft grabbed one of the forks and plates and slid into a seat. The first bite settled his suspicion; Sebastian must have ordered their food. The omelet was light and fluffy, the thin layer of egg wrapped around a delicious assortment of seasoned vegetables and meats in the center. Mycroft had a hard time imagining Sebastian taking the time and care to do an omelet like this when he had an assassination to plan.

"Not to worry, Seb isn't allowed to cook when room service is available." Jim confirmed as he sat down across from the boy and pulled over one of the plates. 

Sebastian merely rolled his eyes and turned the laptop to Jim. Jim surveyed his work, adding notes here and there and decimating his eggs with a fork while he did so. Blue eyes moved to Mycroft, attentively watching him eat as Jim worked. Five minutes later, Jim turned the computer back to Seb with a nod of approval, and that was that. 

The table shook slightly as Mycroft's legs swung under the table. He was still too short to have his feet touch the ground while sitting. Mycroft's mouth had quirked into a smile as he ate, watching Seb watch him. He didn't know the bodyguard well enough yet to be able to read his cues, so he couldn't say what the man was thinking about. Perhaps their time together the previous night. 

"I did ask him," he offered after he swallowed another bite of omelet. Sebastian's reaction to the non-sequiteur would tell him whether or not he'd guessed correctly.

It seemed he had. 

The muscles in his mouth tightened in the barest hint of a quirking smile. No one would have noticed it if Mycroft hadn't been looking. Seb might have been nervous, only because it was _Jim_ , but he didn't show it. 

The interesting bit was that Jim, still focused on his omelet, had a smirk that grew even wider than Sebastian's. His eyes flashed up to the ex-colonel and held not a small amount of devious glee. "You'll be careful with my dearest new friend, won't you Seb?" 

The man sighed, barely stopping another eye roll. Like Jim needed to ask. Like Sebastian could ever take advantage of Jim's newest obsession and hope to avoid the consequences. 

"And what did I say, Mycroft?" Jim smiled pleasantly, with a hint of teeth and a knowing, expectant look as though Sebastian were the one walking into a trap. 

Mycroft swallowed so quickly he nearly choked. His cheeks reddened as he glanced back and forth between the two men. "Um... that you were fine with it, as long as you got to watch. I still don't understand why you'd want to," he added. The idea was strange, to him. He'd been raised with the idea that sex was kept private and hidden away, and seeing Jim and Seb together had only caused a conflicting storm of emotions in him. "But I'll try it, if that's what you want."

It was Seb who turned to Jim with a raised eyebrow. Jim raised his in return. And waggled them. 

"Jim, you dirty old man." Seb seemed to catch on to whatever it was Jim would be getting out of this exchange, but his comment only sent the little criminal into a fit of giggles. Seb knew that Jim wasn't doing this for him. He wasn't giving in to allow Mycroft to explore and Sebastian to have some fun. He wasn't 'giving in' at all. Jim liked the thought of his pets, or… Seb reworded that in his mind. Perhaps his apprentice and his pet playing together. Not to mention that the ex-colonel knew Jim's tastes well enough to know _exactly_ what kind of a picture he, fully grown and nearly twice the size of Jim himself, would make with little Mycroft, and just how much Jim would get off on that. 

"Guilty as charged," Jim lilted. "But don't pretend you didn’t see this coming." 

"Something like it." It was true, Seb had expected a catch when Mycroft began showing any interest in him. Not that he could complain, exactly, but having Jim on the outskirts of the equation could be torture.

Mycroft watched the exchange, grey eyes glittering in curiosity. There was an understanding between the two men that he'd missed, another layer to the conversation that he wasn't getting. "Something I should know?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and looking, for a split second, much more like his adult self than the boy he currently was.

The only thing that he could think of was that Seb was only interested in Jim and wanted to live the fantasy enough to allow anyone to substitute for the part. And projecting a mental fantasy onto another living person would be difficult if the real object of that fantasy was right there in the room. 

Mycroft's expression immediately hardened at the thought, his regard of the two men turning to wary suspicion.

Jim caught onto his confusion more quickly this time. "Put that thought out of your head, Mycroft. The only one of us watching a fantasy play out here will be me." His eyes met the boy's and his leg under the table brushed against Mycroft's. "Seb and I, working so closely together over the years, have simply gained a certain amount of knowledge about the other's… sexual proclivities, shall we say." 

"I think what Jim means is that it's useful having someone drive the van whenever he snatches kids off the street," Seb reiterated bluntly. 

Jim flashed his teeth. "Needless to say, we've gotten to know one another quite well. And Seb is not nearly as particular as I. Nor as gentle," he added as an extra jab. 

"He'd _better_ be." Mycroft's tone sounded oddly dissonant when uttered in a child's voice. There was a heavy, knowing roughness to it that wouldn't have been amiss when speaking to an adult, but it was disconcerting to hear in a register usually reserved for light-hearted excitement or tearful laments. His chin rose to a defiant angle as he stared back at Seb.

And that touched off yet another curiosity: just how many times before had Jim taken someone? Had he let them go, eventually? Or had they met a messy end, as Jim had been intending for him before he'd changed his mind?

"You don't need to worry, Mycroft. I'm rather fond of you." Seb shot the words back at Jim, just for making the boy anxious. 

Though it was true, Sebastian was not normally a nice man. On the other hand, neither was Jim. Mycroft had simply wormed his way into being an exception for them both. Neither man had many qualms over rape, nor murder when it was over. Jim was better at creeping his way into peoples' lives and worlds that he otherwise had no business being in. Sebastian, as in most things, was more blunt and messy about it. 

"I'm young but I'm not _that_ naive." Fondness didn't preclude abuse or injury. Mycroft had seen such things between spouses before. 

Mycroft's mood was already souring at the edges, enough that even the afterglow from the shower wasn't helping. "Jim can watch if he wants, but you and I are going to agree on what we want to try. I'm sure Jim will take you to task if you stray outside the lines." That was a better guarantee than what Mycroft had when Jim and he were alone. Seb would have supervision; with Jim, Mycroft had no choice but to trust that the criminal wasn't going to hurt him.

Jim laughed at the boy's brashness, having just backed Seb into a corner. 

"Great," the bodyguard leveled an ungrateful look at his employer. "Now he's afraid of me. Thank you." 

Jim only smiled, leaning comfortably back in his chair and rubbing his knee against Mycroft's under the table. "Seb will be on his best behavior, I assure you." 

Sebastian threw a napkin at him and got up. He stalked off to his room to get ready. Jim, unperturbed, turned the laptop around to make one last note before he was finished. 

Mycroft's eyes followed Seb as he left. Time would tell if he needed to be wary of Sebastian or not. He still had his own feelings to sort out on the matter - the bodyguard was a tangle of emotions, somewhere between a heroic role model, a curiosity, a friend, and a crush.

Mycroft pushed his empty plate away and slumped sideways, resting his chin on the edge of the table and glancing at the laptop screen. "Are we going to get clothes for me through the internet? I think people will get suspicious if we go out dressed as women but have me trying on clothing for boys."

Jim chuckled. "Yes, I think that would be best." He dragged the laptop, and his chair, closer to Mycroft so the boy could see. He closed Seb's work and brought up a browser in which he began entering one or two sites for Mycroft to look through. "They'll have to be businesses nearby. Make your order and I'll get them on the phone and see if they won't deliver for an extra fee." 

Mycroft pulled the computer closer and began clicking through the sites. There weren't as many choices as when he'd gone shopping with Sherlock and John, but there was still some variety. He began filling up digital shopping carts, choosing a mix of casual and formal items. He wanted to have more than one outfit if he was going to go out with Jim to fancier places, but he also didn't want to hang around flats and hotel rooms in restrictive, dressy clothing. Eventually he had a good mix of outfits. 

When Jim had an opportunity to view his selections, a clear pattern emerged. Mycroft's tastes definitively ran towards darker colors, and styles were an eclectic mix of garments approaching subcultural fashion and old, conservative favorites that had been updated with modern twists.

Jim nodded appreciatively as he sent the orders through, then got on his phone and wandered off toward the balcony window. Judging from the pleasant, businesslike cadence of his voice, he was having no trouble working something out with the salesmen. The call lasted only a few minutes before Jim pocketed his phone again and leaned against the window. 

"We can expect them in a couple hours." 

"How much time do we have before we have to dress up to go watch Seb work?" Jim hadn't mentioned exactly when the shootings were going to take place, just that they'd have to hurry if they wanted to watch both of the targets go down. Depending on how long they had to wait, they could have sufficient time to go see some other sights. Or, if Jim wanted to work, it would give Mycroft more time to study.

"Shouldn't be long after your clothes are delivered. Neither are scheduled to arrive until this afternoon, but it could be a waiting game from there." Jim looked like he was simply enjoying watching the way the morning light fell upon Mycroft from the window. 

"Their flights are on schedule," Seb said from the doorway. He was dressed in casual attire now, faded jeans, worn leather shoes, and a grey t shirt. He would blend in with the street crowd.

Mycroft couldn't quite hide an appreciative smile; caution or not, Seb wasn't hard on the eyes. "What are we going to do in the meantime, then? We could always go see the places we were going to last night," he suggested. He really didn't want to leave Egypt having only experienced one restaurant and the Garbage City.

Jim considered. They only had a few hours before they moved in, and then they would be out of the city. If Mycroft were picked up on camera and recognized by Egypt's international intel by then, they still wouldn't get to the boy in time. Still, he would rather avoid the situation all together. 

"We'll visit old Cairo, and the historic part of the city. We'll be able to avoid public cameras there." 

Sebastian seemed to think this was a good idea. "You might like the markets. Busy, but it'll be an experience worth seeing." 

Mycroft nodded and perked up. "I'd like that." Perhaps the markets wouldn't match up with the mental images he'd concocted, but he imagined they'd be a riot of colors and smells and sounds, stimulating and full of interesting things to look at. Not the least of which was people, and people-watching was one of his favorite hobbies. "Do you think it'd be safe to eat street food? I've heard about baklava and basbousa but I've never tried them."

Jim waved away the concern. "Yes, that would be just fine. We can find some desserts, too." He pushed off from the window and went to Mycroft's side. "No need to worry," he said, tilting his head and wrapping his arms around the boy from behind, "we have Sebastian to keep us safe." 

It seemed Jim was going to find endless amusement in whatever was forming between the boy and his bodyguard, much to the certain embarrassment of both. 

Mycroft doubted that Jim needed Seb to protect him all _that_ much, but he wasn't going to protest. Jim's affection seemed to often be expressed in physical touch, and Mycroft didn't mind soaking it up for as long as it was offered. "But who's going to keep Sebastian safe?" he asked, glancing up at the bodyguard with a hint of a smirk. The boy was lost in a reverie for a moment, wondering just how far Seb would let him tease and torment him. How much Seb would put up with if Jim ordered him to. Maybe even if Jim just _asked_.

Mycroft didn't want to hurt Sebastian, not _really_ , but he couldn't deny that the mental image was appealing.

Seb leaned against the doorframe. "I'll have to trust you'll watch my back, won't I?" he asked, seeming to take Mycroft's taunting humor for what it was. "And pray you don't stab it, yourself," he added, indulging the boy's subtle insinuation. He didn't seem to _actually_ be worried, not like the few instances when Jim had made him fear for his life and well-being in front of the boy, but not because he hadn't seen what Mycroft was capable of. More likely, the man had some idea of Mycroft's growing crush. 

"Not unless you want me to," Mycroft giggled, smirk melting into a good-natured grin. One could never tell; people liked the strangest things, and Mycroft was no exception to the rule. "But unless I'm wrong, I don't think you go in for that sort of thing."

Jim's arms tightened around him and Mycroft leaned back into the older man. He could get used to this. Physical touch, displays of affection. People finding him attractive and intriguing rather than odd and freakish.

Seb chuckled. "No, you're not wrong." 

"Seb believes in 'survival of the fittest', that those strong enough to take what they want… can," Jim whispered into Mycroft's ear loud enough for Seb to hear. "If you want him like that, you'll have to _take_ him." There was no mistaking the wicked mirth in Jim's voice for anything less than stacking the deck between the two to watch them maneuver around it. 

"Not enough to risk making him not like me anymore." Mycroft avoided the other issue: that he wasn't old enough yet to be able to have either of the men the way he wanted. He was enjoying what they'd been doing thus far - 'bottoming' seemed to be the term people used for it - but Mycroft would have liked being able to have them in turn. "I like him too much for that."

Jim cooed and squeezed the boy in his arm and generally made a fuss of it. "Isn't he _sweeeeeet?_ " He dropped the act a moment later, but not without a kiss to Mycroft's cheek.

"Come on, get ready and I'll get the car." Seb didn't look particularly amused at Jim's antics. 

Jim ignored him and stroked a curl of hair off Mycroft's forehead. He sighed, "Off to mingle, then," as if going out amongst common people were a chore. 

Mycroft had flushed and curled in on himself slightly, unused to being fussed over or baby talked. It was worse than being completely ignored. "It's not that bad. People are fun to watch, especially if they don't know you're watching." Or if you could spot and pull their strings. Mycroft had learned early on that putting on the right act was often more effective than simply being himself. 

Jim didn't look very convinced, but he wandered back to the bedroom without further comment, looking for the few items they'd need. People watching was probably not such a new experience for him, being able to go wherever and do whatever he wanted. Jim opted to stay in his button up, sans coat, probably for Mycroft's sake, who would be walking the streets in not very casual attire. Luckily, they made good tourists. 

Mycroft was nervous, but didn't want to admit it. He was used to going into situations only when he knew the territory and all the major players and possibilities. In other words, when he was certain that he was going to be in complete control. Stepping into a new and different world was going to be an exciting adventure, but he wasn't going to remain unscathed by anxiety, even with Sebastian and Jim accompanying him. 

He waited for Jim to return, turning to look at Sebastian instead.

Seb had a case at his feet. It looked like a standard messenger bag, except that it was hard, like a briefcase, and quite large. Still rather fashionable, and most people would assume it was a computer case, but Seb was surely not using it to store laptops. 

Seb picked it up and set it on the table, waving the boy closer as though it were secret and unlatching it to show Mycroft what it really was. Inside lay a sleek, black rifle in a half dozen pieces. "Custom takedown rifle. Extremely useful, quick to put together, easy to hide." 

Mycroft lit up, even just looking down at the pieces, mentally sorting out how they would reconnect. "Is this your favorite one?" He imagined that, even if you had access to an arsenal, people would start to favor particular weapons. Grey eyes flicked over towards Seb at the thought. Mycroft wondered if he'd brought his other tools, and if he was hiding them in the same places.

Seb was close enough that he could find out. Mycroft surreptitiously reached out and touched the man's waist, remembering where the straps of the holsters had settled before.

When he found none, Seb glanced down at him. The man realized what he was up to and gave him a smirk. "Only the one handgun today. Don't want to shoot my dick off lying on a rooftop." It was probably more uncomfortable than it was dangerous, but Seb wanted to see the boy smile. "And no, this one….this one is one of my favorites, but not _the_ favorite." 

Mycroft's smile turned sharp at the edges. "Which one is _the_ favorite?" he whispered and turned to face Seb more fully. The rifle was impressive, but he wondered what Seb liked better. Something with a longer range? Something that did more traumatic, dramatic amounts of damage, or something that left delicate little holes and killed with style? Or did he favor something close-up and personal? That would be an unusual choice, for a sniper.

Seb gave a soft chuckle. He caught the look in Mycroft's eye, trying to figure him out. "Are we still talking about guns?" he asked. It seemed he was about to answer when a footstep in the hall caught his eye and gave him pause, enough to retract what had been on the tip of his tongue. "That one," he said, still leaning down toward Mycroft, but his eyes on Jim. Jim, dressed in his starched, fitted shirt, drenched in the shadow of the hall, watched them with black eyes a little curl of his lips. "Never seen a weapon more destructive than him."

Mycroft grinned. "Is that a challenge?" he asked coyly, waiting for Seb gaze to return to him. When it did, Mycroft quickly rose up on the balls of his feet and kissed him on the lips - just a quick peck before he darted backwards out of reach, laughing. Jim drew him in like a magnet, and it was only another moment before Mycroft had his arm laced through the criminal's and was whispering in his ear. "Sebastian was showing me his rifle. Maybe he'll let me try it sometime." The corners of Jim's mouth quirked even higher, and Mycroft felt pleased that he'd managed to amuse him.

Jim shared a glance with Mycroft before turning his gaze to Sebastian. "I don't think he'd mind. Now, put that away before we see it in action later." 

"Right boss," Seb said and gave a wink to Mycroft. Knowing Sebastian, it probably _was_ a challenge, and one that Jim would revel in equally. The sniper locked the case and hid it back in the second bedroom before quickly returning. "All set?

"I don't have anything else to change into yet, so I'm ready to go." Mycroft buttoned his shirt the rest of the way up to the collar. It would be hotter, but they would avoid awkward questions and situations by having the bruises hidden. He was already going to attract undue attention due to his age and coloration. Freckled, redheaded boys couldn't have been a frequent sight, even with as metropolitan as Egypt was. They were going to stand out as newcomers, most likely tourists.

They headed back down to the parking garage just as quickly as they had before. Jim kept Mycroft between himself and Sebastian for the brief moment that they had to move in the open, obscuring the boy as best they could. There were only two cameras beside the building and fortunately they were only for private security and had been easily avoided. Sebastian was driving again, and Jim was adamant about keeping the windows rolled up until they reached the less modern part of the city. 

Mycroft snuggled up beside Jim, watching the city shift as it rolled past. His heart was in his throat, and all he could think about was his parents taking him aside, reiterating again and again just how dangerous things could be, how careful he had to be not to get caught or killed. His arms tightened around Jim as he tried to force his breathing to slow down. Even knowing that his family was mostly dead or disabled didn't assuage his fear. It was something mindless, placed in him when he was young and encouraged to grow until it defied logic, all in an effort to keep him safe.

Jim began to notice his discomfort. The dark eyed man looked down at Mycroft and wrapped his arm around him tighter in return. He watched Mycroft watching the city and tried to make out what was upsetting him. They travelled at a slow, meandering pace in the downtown traffic, but any passersby would have a hell of a time seeing through their darkened windows. "What is it?"

"You're going to think it's stupid," Mycroft mumbled in response. He tore his gaze away from the windows. "I don't know any of this. It's not familiar and I can't predict everything that might happen. So while it's fun and interesting, it's also stressful. I know I'm safe, because I'll be with both of you, and my family is mostly dead, and nobody knows I'm here, but knowing all of that doesn't help. It doesn't stop me from _feeling_ it or worrying, and it feels like the moment I step outside I'm going to get shot or grabbed."

Jim considered this, which really said something as when they'd first met, he wouldn't have given it more than two second's thought. He rubbed his thumb against Mycroft's back and didn't take his eyes off the boy. "What can I do to help?" 

Mycroft felt a kind of fear that Jim had railed against all his life. Jim had done everything to take himself above fear - he put himself in positions of absolute control, he moved through the world as anonymous as a shadow, he even embraced the chaos that _no one_ could control, becoming a part of it… so that he did not have to fear it. He had removed himself, consciously and unconsciously, so far from this feeling, that remembering it was almost alien to him. But he could see it in the boy, and bits of recollection came back to him. 

"I don't know if you can do anything," Mycroft admitted. "It's just something I've got to confront myself, I think. It's helping, having you nearby, but I have to... just do it and see that nothing happens. And try it again, and again, and eventually maybe it will sink in that I don't have to worry anymore. Not in the way I'm used to, anyways."

That was the trick to it. Fear had been conditioned into him, and it would take time and repetitive confrontation to desensitize Mycroft to the point where the reaction could be controlled and dismissed. "Just stay by me. I'll let you know if it starts becoming too much and I want to leave."

Jim leaned his head back to look out the window with the boy, hand still stroking along his back, a silent acknowledgement of Mycroft's thoughts. If this was something he had grown up with, it would probably be with him for the rest of his life, a part of his personality. But he'd survived through one kidnapping, had actually come out the better for it, and with time and with enough effort, Jim knew it could lessen. With a mind like Mycroft's, he was willing to take the chance. Anything was possible. 

Boredom was the counterbalance. New territory promised a relief from that pain, and boredom actually _was_ pain - usually mental, but sometimes extending poisonous tendrils out until it manifested very real, physical anguish. Mycroft would always be driven to step outside the boundaries because that was where he found what he needed, whether that was mental stimulation or a way to satisfy other cravings. Mycroft couldn't even comprehend how his other self had endured it, binding himself into one set of restraints after another until he had no options but to stay inside the lines. Perhaps the fear had eaten him alive.

When resolve began to loosen tightness of Mycroft’s shoulders, Jim knew he was beginning to work through it. He kept his arm over the boy as the scenery around them slowly began to transition from modern high-rises to older buildings, remnants of a time long passed. Unfortunately, the streets slowed. Driving through downtown had been one thing, but as they entered historic Cairo, the roads meandered around the relics. 

Seb wanted to get them as far as they could go into the crowds before he looked for a place to park. 

Mycroft's panic attack was under control when they finally came to a stop. The streets were still full of people, and there were nooks and alleyways everywhere, but the buildings were shorter. Mycroft felt less exposed, strangely. While there were plenty of places for enemies to hide, the same was true for himself.

The boy finally detached himself from Jim and waited for one of the men to exit first. He was not going to be the first one out of the car.

Seb was, but Jim didn't wait for him to open the door for them either, and soon all three were on the bustling sidewalk. Behind them was a well-kept merchant house and across from them was one of the mosques, large and very, very old, but still quite busy. It was part of a complex of buildings and Jim gazed at it with his head cocked and a curious eye. 

Sebastian was content to let him lead as they walked toward the building. He kept close to Mycroft and though he seemed relaxed, he kept a watchful eye on everything around them. 

Mycroft's eyes widened. A strange, detached expression settled into his features as he turned to look at some of the buildings around them - recording. The architecture in this part of the city was amazing, all graceful arches and intricate geometric patterns. It was orderly and inorganic, but it managed to be warm and inviting instead of cold and unfriendly.

They weren't even in the merchant house yet and the street was full of noise, people talking and vehicles moving: the heartbeat of a city. Mycroft could hear strands of conversation perfectly well, but the words were meaningless to him, just strings of sound that couldn't be deciphered.

Jim took them through the mosque and into the complex, meandering about it like three curious tourists. Inside, they found two other distinct buildings as well as many other batches of sight-seers. "The Qalawun Complex," Jim said. "It consists of the mosque, a school where Islamic law and medicine were originally taught, and…" his eyes brightened, "the sultan's mausoleum. Said to be one of the most beautiful buildings in the world."

Mycroft must have felt more secure with other tourists nearby; the way the tension dropped from his slender shoulders was noticeable. Other out-of-place strangers meant that they didn't stick out as much. "Is he still in there?" he asked, obviously denoting the referenced sultan.

The complex itself was turning out to be even more breathtaking inside. The decorative patterns covering the walls, floors, and ceiling had splashes of bright color that had been missing outside.

"Only one way to know for sure…," Jim teased with a mischievous look about him. "If we find the skull, I'll give it to you and you can have a friend to match Sherlock's." 

The mausoleum was nearly octagonal in its interior design, which had been misleading because the building on the outside had seemed to follow along the street. It was divided into segments of stucco, marble, and mosaic inlay, forming beautifully intricate designs beneath the raised dome of the ceiling. 

Seb's eyes looked up and all around the moment they stepped underneath it, but Jim stood in the center and twirled like he hadn't a care in the world. 

Mycroft stepped carefully, staying close to Jim until their surroundings finally left him transfixed. The boy wasn't immune to aesthetic beauty - far from it, he seemed to have a greater appreciation for it than Sherlock had had when he'd been confronted with cases involving artwork. Mycroft's eyes turned up, and the exquisite designs blurred and were overlaid with another building's decorated walls and a breathtaking dome. 

He could hear a man's voice murmuring behind him, offering a short historical summary of the room in Arabic. He began to repeat the words he was hearing. Mycroft commented in stilted, but fluent, Arabic about the artistic layers of a building three thousand miles away in Istanbul.

Jim stopped his spinning and turned to the boy with wide eyes. Even Seb stopped to look at him curiously. 

"Thought he said he didn't speak —" 

" _Shut up_ Seb," Jim held up a hand to the man before he swooped down on Mycroft like the boy were the most mysterious thing in the complex. Jim stopped right in front of him, eyes scanning the boy for changes in his expression, ears open and running through a catalog of architecture. He recognized the place Mycroft was describing as the Hagia Sofia, an impressive monument, but unless he'd visited it before and memorized the tour, which he previously indicated that he _hadn't_ , something was very off. 

Mycroft's eyes were following a structure that didn't exist in the mausoleum. He turned to see where it ended and blinked, his description cutting off in mid-sentence as the voice disappeared and the room shifted. It took a moment for the boy to realize what had happened. The tension was back in his shoulders.

"Jim?" The small criminal was right at his side, but Mycroft reached out and touched him to reassure himself that he was real. "I remember being somewhere else. 'Aya Sofya'," he added with a frown, remembering bits of what had been said. While the language hadn't seemed unintelligible in the moment, he could no longer remember what the sounds had meant. "It was the Hagia Sofia, I think."

Jim narrowed his gaze. A sneaking suspicion sharpened his features. By the look on Sebastian's face, he was dumbfounded, but he hadn't been there that morning when Mycroft dreamt of his father's death, a death that the boy hadn't yet experienced. 

"Have you ever been there?" Jim asked softly. 

"I don't know. It felt the same. The same as earlier." Jim would know what he meant. "There was someone behind me talking, and I swear that I could understand him when it was happening, but now I just remember the _sounds_. I know he was a tour guide, and he was describing the history behind different parts of the building and some pieces of artwork, but I don't remember how the meaning connects to the words."

Jim nodded, but he didn't look any happier. Seb looked from one to the other in mild confusion, but Jim didn't deign to explain what it meant. "We're leaving for London tonight. As soon as the job's over." 

"Yes sir," Seb nodded once. The statement had been for him as much as it had been for Mycroft. 

Jim's hand brushed along the boy's upper arm. The man was visibly forcing the hardness out of his gaze, and he was doing it for Mycroft's sake. Jim would rather he saw worry than anger. 

Mycroft had spotted it anyways. He wasn't as experienced at reading people as Jim was, at least not right now, but that didn't mean he wasn't paying attention. Confusion and worry transformed into contrition and sorrow. "'m sorry, Jim," he murmured. Mycroft reached out to grab ahold of Jim's hand. "'m not trying t'make it happen."

The man's arms wrapped around him and tried to ease the pain away. Jim blatantly disregarded the few other tourists milling around the public space. As far as they were concerned, the two of them were family. 

"I'm not angry with you," Jim said softly. "Not at you." Jim was good at being angry with the world. He'd practically made a profession out of it, and here he was once again pitted against it, this time with Mycroft at his side. 

"It's a really beautiful building," Mycroft whispered. Hopefully a distraction would make them both feel better by making them focus on something else. "It really is. Thank you for taking me to see it."

Still, after his flashback, Mycroft didn't want to linger. Not even for the challenge of smuggling a skull out of the mausoleum. "Can we try the street vendors?" That might be a safer bet. Mycroft had a hard time imagining that his older self had spent a lot of time on the streets among regular people. It would be unlikely that he's stumble across something else that would jog his memory.

Jim straightened and let his hands brush down Mycroft's arms before he let the boy go. "Yes, I think that would be a good idea. Let's see if we can find some dessert, hm?" 

Jim led them through the rest of the complex and back out onto the street. He stayed at Mycroft's side all the way, allowing their arms to brush together and his hand to touch the boy's back every once in a while, subtle signs of possessiveness radiating from him. Sebastian kept his distance just far enough to be out of their personal space. It was clearly a conscious decision, because he stayed as close as he could otherwise. 

Mycroft wasn't complaining. He was suppressing his anxiety well, but having two resurfaced memories in a day had resurrected his worries. It was enough to overshadow his reluctance to be out on unfamiliar streets among crowds of strangers.

The ambient noise around them picked up as soon as they were out of the complex and back in the bustle of city life. They walked together as a unit, Jim and Mycroft pressed close together and Seb following right behind them. While Jim and Mycroft's dressy clothing drew a few looks, they were dismissed as affluent travelers who'd wandered away from the tourist traps for a look at local life. It was only a few minutes before they managed to find a small market set up on a side street.

They found vendors selling fruits and vegetables first, then bread and other pastries. A little ways into the market they found vendors with silver and jewelry, clothing, and trinkets. Jim brought them to peruse along the clothing stands, searching and searching for something in particular, until he found two sets of women's robes. He purchased them from an enthusiastic seller, who was sure to have been curious, but didn't say anything, and then they were on their way again. This time, lingering by the food. 

There was a great variety of things to choose from. Sweets proved to be a solid interest of Mycroft's; he clasped Jim's hand and led him along, peering at each vendor's wares. They purchased small portions of roz bil-laban, umm ali, basbousa, and kunafah to share. They managed to find a nook with a low stone ledge to sit down on.

Mycroft's mood had definitively lifted with the distraction of treats. He giggled at the surprised look on Seb's face when he offered the bodyguard a spoonful of roz bil-laban.

Seb laughed in return and leaned down to take the offered bite in his mouth. As silly as it seemed for Mycroft to be feeding him, the rice pudding was very tasty, and, since the boy's spirits had risen, he made Mycroft laugh again by leaning down and trying to take another bite when the boy filled his spoon again. Jim flicked pieces of pound cake at them, and some of it went down Sebastian's shirt, but the criminal refused to let anyone eat his basbusa. 

Mycroft enjoyed watching Jim pick on Sebastian, then joined in by tormenting Jim, taking an exceptionally long time to savor the stuffed finger pastries. The look on both men's faces was worth it, as was the sudden flinch when Mycroft bit down suddenly and swallowed the severed half.

They knew he was teasing, but Jim's lips lifted in a little snarl. If Mycroft were going to distract him like that, then he was going to get what he'd started, even if they had to finish later. Jim watched the boy's lips while Seb's gaze lingered on the treat in his hands. The bodyguard gave him a quick smirk, a nod for his knack at catching their undivided attention. 

When the sweets were finished, the three rested and watched the people pass. The corner they'd found was as comfortable a spot as any, and Jim stretched out, hooking his ankles together and lying half in the sun, half out of it. Even Seb, who still kept an eye on their surroundings, seemed relaxed.

Mycroft seemed more at ease the longer they were outside. The culture was different, and he couldn't understand the language, but people were people no matter where you went. There were always commonalities, and observing them provided some level of comfort and reassurance.

Mycroft watched for a while, the slid to his feet and stretched. After a moment of internal debate he turned to both men. "Wait here. I want to try something."

Jim quirked an eyebrow. 

Sebastian stopped halfway in rising to his feet. The bodyguard looked doubtful, and leveled cool eyes at the boy. "Don't go where I can't see you, or I'm coming after you." He didn't get up, but he didn't relax back down either. Instead, he sat back next to Jim with his feet planted firmly on the ground and ready to spring if he saw the boy get into trouble. 

Mycroft grinned. "Right. I'll be right back." 

He backed away from them both and began to mingle with the market crowd. The locals stared a bit at first, wondering what a tourist boy was doing wandering the market without a guardian at his side, but Mycroft played up his curiosity and projected an air of innocence in his body language. It was still an unusual situation, but the vendors began to smile. Customers and merchants talked over his head and occasionally made remarks in slow, exaggerated Arabic that was clearly directed at Mycroft. The boy simply smiled back politely, triggering quiet laughter from the adults around him.

Mycroft's hands wandered whenever they weren't looking.

Jim's eyes lit up as he watched Mycroft. From a distance, between the crowd, he and Sebastian could see what the boy was doing. The sniper leaned back and said something to Jim that made the criminal's lips curl in a truly awful way. If anyone had been watching the two men tucked into their alcove, they might have thought Jim as mad as he actually was. His knees began to bounce and his fingers twitched with delight at every successful attempt Mycroft made that they could see. Jim was thoroughly pleased, but Seb never let his guard down as he watched. 

After about half an hour, Mycroft waved farewell to the last stall keeper and dashed back to Jim and Sebastian. The boy's smirk couldn't have been more smug if he tried. "I got all sorts of odd things," he murmured. "But I can't really see what until we leave. I don't want them to spot me with their stuff. Most of it's probably junk, but it was more about the fun than getting something valuable." 

Jim laughed wildly and clapped his hands like he were a boy himself, his eyes glinting madly. 

Seb's glanced at his pockets appreciatively. "That was quite a show. You've practiced this before," he said with a note of pride in his voice. 

In spite of his original anxieties, Mycroft had done very well, especially alone in a crowd with the risk of getting caught. Jim's hand fell affectionately to the back of his neck and he brought the boy closer. He was all teeth and wild eyes. "Let's get out of here, I want to see what you found." 

"Me too," Mycroft laughed and hugged Jim tight for a moment. When they parted, he laced their hands together and led Jim lead the way back to the car. Sebastian stayed closer this time, now that Jim wasn't radiating possessive anger.

"I wasn't sure how it was going to work, as some of the clothing here is a lot different than when I've done it in Britain, but it wasn't that bad. Just pockets in different places, and different catches because the cloth is cut in other ways."

Jim rubbed his thumb against the boy's hand as they made their way back to the car. Apparently what Mycroft had done sent the gears turning in his head, for he was surprisingly quiet, but the feral grin didn't ever quite leave his face. 

They found their car and Seb checked it out quickly before they climbed in. The bodyguard barely had his door shut before Jim was on Mycroft, leaning over and trailing his hands down the boy's sides until they found the bulges in his pockets. Jim looked at him like they were sharing a secret. "Ooo… I have all _kinds_ of ideas for you," he whispered. "You play innocent so very, _very_ well in a crowd." 

Mycroft squirmed and grinned in delight. He'd caught on to the game. "I have a lot of practice. It's a useful skill." Jim's clever fingers dipped into his pockets and began retrieving the stolen trinkets, and Mycroft let him. "You seem to like it for more than just that, though."

Jim's toothy grin told him he'd hit the mark. Mycroft stretched out across the back seat, swooning in mock exasperation. "You could've just said so."

Jim bent over him and pressed his lips to Mycroft's neck while his hands worked. "Just imagine, you and I in the crowded city street, maybe at a show in London, or another marketplace here…just standing together…with your hand down my trousers." He nipped the boy's ear and finally finished pulling all the trinkets free of his pockets. Jim pressed his hand over the boy's crotch to let the idea sink in. 

Mycroft pressed the back of one hand to his mouth and moaned. Between Jim's mouth and his hand, he was paying the boy back for his earlier teasing. With interest. "Wouldn't you have trouble keeping up that act?" he asked. Mycroft couldn't imagine continuing to act with Jim touching him on the sly.

"Only one way to find out." Jim smirked and sat back, releasing Mycroft from the torture, which, to be fair, was almost as bad. He picked up a few objects - a set of rings one of the market-goers had been carrying with them, nothing special by Jim's tastes, but more than moderately priced. Next was a man's wallet, and it looked like someone visiting from Mumbai would be missing their passport on the trip back to India. Jim paused to giggle at the man's picture before he tossed it away. 

A few other tokens followed - coins in various denominations, what appeared to be a tiny scent box, a carved stone scarab of the sort sold to tourists, and a small snack bag of dates. Mycroft seemed disappointed at the haul. "Nothing all that good," he muttered, but he repocketed a couple of coins and the scarab. They'd be suitable as souvenirs of the trip, at the very least , and less risky than some other mementoes he could have kept.

"Not the right crowd for it." Jim didn't seem fazed. "But Mycroft, just imagine what usefulness a boy like you could get up to _with_ the right crowd. A child," and Jim's piercing gaze told him not to take offense at the word, "barely twelve could be the greatest spy ever recruited." 

If Jim had gotten ideas before, he was getting all sorts of them now, and all the while looking like he wanted to eat Mycroft up at the same time. 

Mycroft blushed. He'd always been fond of spy novels and movies, almost as much as the sci-fi and horror genres. His interest in horror had always been considered acceptable so long as he didn't display any signs of idolizing the monsters and murderers in the stories, and so his boyhood heroes had always been secret agents and the Doctor: people who lived on the edges of humanity, watching and changing identities like clothing. He could relate, and the glamorized presentation of their lives made it seem less tragic and lonely. "You really think so?"

"Oh yes," Jim whispered. He looked like he had one or two specific instances of his own in mind, unaware of Mycroft's fantasies. Jim would have liked nothing less than to slip the boy back into the British government and pit him against them, just for spite. "But we have more important things to deal with first," he said more soberly. He drew Mycroft into his arms and leaned back with him. Jim's affectionate touches had gained a guarding edge to them, as though he could hold onto the boy and keep him from floating away, since Mycroft's bursts of memory. 

If Mycroft hadn't guessed right away what Jim had meant, his possessive, protective embrace confirmed it without a doubt. "What are we going to do?" he whispered. The miasma of anger and sadness had returned, clinging to Jim's skin and hiding in his dark eyes. "I have to sleep, and I couldn't control it. I just... remembered. It's not even in order. I don't know how old I was, when I visited Hagia Sofia, but I was a lot taller."

"I'm going to find whatever those idiots working with you missed. And in so doing, I will find out whether these memories will be chronically recurring, or whether they are simply flukes, caught in the mess of altered neurons firing in your brain." Jim traced a finger down Mycroft's temple. One could almost believe he was looking into the grey matter beneath layers of curls, skin, and bone. 

"Jim..." The older man sounded so determined, so certain, but a question was eating at Mycroft. "...what happens if it all comes back? If I remember everything?" If his memories came back, their relationship might change... and his old employers might become his new worst enemies. Mycroft couldn't imagine that, if he'd been as important as he was guessing, the British government would just let him go. He'd be expected to come back and resume his duties, all their secrets intact, or they would try to neutralize the danger he posed.

Jim's hand paused. Something between them grew taut. Mycroft had a lifetime of experience and dedication to his former life, to his family and his home. If he swung the other way upon regaining his memories, he could be just as dangerous to Jim. If Mycroft betrayed him, Jim could very well come after him. 

The criminal's arms squeezed tighter around him. His lips brushed Mycroft's neck as he spoke, "That'll depend on you now, won't it?" 

"Yes, but... what if you don't like who I am?" Mycroft couldn't quite grasp how he'd gone so far down the road of suppression that he'd ended up a living robot, but his old memories would hold the key. If everything came back, there was a chance he'd become that person again. The one Jim had found to be boring. The one Jim had snatched up with glee for a chance at bloody revenge. 

"If you become that person again, you couldn't live with me." There was a note of ice creeping into Jim's voice. "You _wouldn't_ live with me. Or maybe you would," he grasped Mycroft's jaw between his fingers and tilted his head back so that their gazes met. Jim flashed him a brief and cold smile. "…just long enough to enjoy yourself a little more.." he brushed their lips together, "…before you stab me in the back." His voice was as soft and as smooth as ever. "We would kill one another, you and I, two opposing forces set on the battlefield."

Jim's expression and words were utterly at odds with his touch, and they pulled Mycroft in opposite directions. The thought of Jim pale and cold in death sent unpleasant chills up his spine. "I can't imagine wanting to kill you." Not unless Jim's personality and behavior drastically changed. It would take a severe betrayal to make Mycroft reassess Jim's status. "Maybe hurt," he admitted. "But nothing like that. Nothing that bad."

Mycroft had almost said that he'd never consider anything that _permanent_ , but that wasn't true. If he had the opportunity and Jim let him, marking the older man in a more durable way was a severe temptation.

Jim pressed their foreheads together and his body seemed to melt around Mycroft's. The tension drained from him, leaving his limbs as boneless as a rag doll, not from relief, but from some awful, cutting emotion that might have been sadness clawing its way up inside him like a small animal. "You say that now.." Jim exhaled in a breath. 

They both had ideas, but truth be told, there was no telling what Mycroft would do when it came to that, and there was no telling what Jim would do if pitted against him. Either had as much potential to betray the other.

Mycroft took one look at Jim's expression and whimpered in distress. Whatever he was seeing, it was unbearable, sapping the strength from Jim's frame. The boy's jaw set as an unexpected wave of protectiveness took hold. Jim wasn't supposed to look like... _this_. The criminal had endeavored to make himself immune and immortal against all challengers; nothing should have melted his confident smile.

Mycroft pulled back from Jim, frowning at the ease with which Jim let him go, and stared back at the older man. "Unacceptable," he muttered to himself. He pressed their lips together before Jim could respond.

The criminal was surprised, but he let it continue. He even let Mycroft lead through the kiss for a minute before Jim returned it. When they broke, they studied one another, like they had done so many times before in the past few days, but this time with thoughts of the future. It was unavoidable. Until now, they'd enjoyed basking in the present and the newness of it all. Mycroft was determined; Jim was calculating. The energy had come back into the man, but it hadn't relieved his doubts. 

Comforting phrases didn't roll easily off Mycroft's tongue; he had no way of knowing what was going to happen, much less when. All he could do was repeat his intention to stay, and Jim had already heard it. "I'm trying," he murmured. "I don't want you to look like that again." Only time would prove their fears baseless and settle the matter once and for all, but Mycroft didn't like the way the uncertainty weighed on both of them.

Jim sighed and nodded, catching Mycroft's hands and holding them in his own. The boy wouldn't be able to stop him from carrying through with his investigation into the incident, nor stop him from making plans, but, if Mycroft were lucky, he might be able to keep Jim's mind from going to darker places. 

"I believe you," Jim said quietly, his head tilted to one side and his eyes unfocused before he brought himself out of his thoughts and looked at the boy. "I'd like to keep you for as long as I can."

Mycroft nodded solemnly and settled closer, tucking himself against the crook of Jim's neck and feeling the criminal's arms tighten around him again. His skin had a particular scent to it that Mycroft was beginning to recognize and associate with comfort.

The boy decided to change the subject, moving them into more optimistic territory. "What are we going to do together? You said I'd make a good spy. Is that what you want me doing to help out?"

Jim chuckled, sensing what the boy was doing, but he went along with it. "It would be very useful, yes. And I see you can be quite an actor when you want to be. No one knows who you are, and no one would ever suspect you of being heavily involved in a business like mine." 

On the streets, alone in a city like this, Mycroft stood out in a crowd, but in the right situation, with the right method of infiltration, he could become the perfect weapon. 

They were making decent time now, leaving the old Islamic Cairo and reentering downtown. 

"Don't you do most of your business via computers, though? You wouldn't have to use me very often unless you sent me out like Seb." Which was another idea in and of itself - perhaps Seb could train him well enough that he could be a secondary sniper, someday. The thought was appealing, until Mycroft remembered the amount of legwork that would be involved. And the heavy lifting.

"Maybe I could help out with the computers." That was what he was supposed to have been good at, before the accident. Information and technology, encryption and code-breaking, languages.

For some reason that made Jim laugh. Perhaps he'd been reminded of the old Mycroft. "It does depend on the job. There are plenty that can be handled through online transactions alone. The rare, and often the interesting, require either a personal touch or the maneuvering of players through anonymous communication. And I know how you enjoy games of strategy." 

The area around their hotel was familiar now. They pulled into the parking ramp and Seb tilted the mirror to see Mycroft in the backseat. "Don't get too comfortable there. If I teach you to shoot, I want to see you use those skills someday." 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, _sir_. Does he really get to give me orders?" he asked Jim. Mycroft wasn't opposed to putting his skills to use, or the thrill of the hunt, but he balked at the patronizing tone of _expectation_. He reluctantly scooted off of Jim's lap so they could exit the car.

Seb threw a cheeky grin his way, all straight white teeth and easy military bravado. 

"To the victor go the spoils," Jim said airily. "But I warn you, Moran isn't opposed to cheating. Though, if you'd like to fight him on this, I may be persuaded to lend you a hand." Not even Jim could hide the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, pleased that he'd set the two up to battle for his benefit either way. 

The look Mycroft gave Seb was pure calculation. The gears clicking away in his head were almost audible, busily calculating ways he could get the upper hand over Seb. The bodyguard was far bigger, stronger, and heavier, but Mycroft knew that didn't make him invulnerable. Every object had its leverage points, and the right equipment could enable you to even the playing field against an overpowering opponent.

A slow smile crept over Mycroft's lips, sweetness ruined by an edge of dark glee. He reached out to squeeze Jim's hand; assistance might be necessary, and it would be appreciated.

Jim flashed a tight lipped smile at Sebastian over the boy's head, blatantly escalating the situation. Fortunately, the bodyguard took it as good naturedly as one could when faced with the likes of Moriarty and his new apprentice. Sebastian knew not to let his guard down around them already, and this was fair enough warning not to let it slip. He raised his brows back at Jim as they made their way into the hotel, accepting the challenge. 

Mycroft giggled under his breath as they returned to their room. Despite the few hitches they'd had, the day was looking up. He'd get to see two assassinations, and he had a new goal. One that Jim seemed to approve of.


	12. Chapter 12

"Once we get into disguise, are we driving there separately?" It only made sense to do so. Seb would be preoccupied with staying discreet, getting into position, and getting out and on to the next target as quickly as possible. He wouldn't have time to worry about their transportation.

Seb had gone into his room, presumably to ready himself. Jim smiled after him before he turned to Mycroft. 

"We are." His head swayed this way and that ever so slightly, contemplating the strategies behind the boy's question. His gaze was curious, but his countenance was calm. Somehow Jim expressed his excitement in his eyes only and it was surely an expression very few people could have pinned down. 

He set their new clothes on the table and began unfolding them.

Mycroft watched the lengths of cloth unfurl. Part of him winced at the idea of dressing in women's clothing, but it was the same part that constantly held him back from doing anything that might be risky and draw too much attention. Just as he had to take care when he went outside to indulge certain interests, Mycroft had had to watch how far he deviated from the upper class's ideas about gender norms and behavior. Wandering over too many lines just made people scrutinize him more closely.

"How close are we going to get?"

"As close as possible," Jim said, "which should put us at the courtyard of the cafe at the hotel. We should arrive early, I think. We'll have time for tea and a lovely view of our mark heading up to the front door. You might even get to see the surprise on his face as he goes down." Jim paused, his imagination taking hold for a split second before he finished laying out the clothing. 

Mycroft smiled at the thought. It was the victims' reactions that were the interesting bit, really. The physicality was secondary, and flesh lost all its appeal when dead. He began to strip off the suit and carefully set the pieces aside; the new clothing was going to be hot enough without adding extra layers to trap heat. "What did they do to deserve getting killed? Not that there has to be a reason, but people aren't willing to pay for a job unless they have motivation."

Jim inclined his head in acknowledgement. "In this case, propaganda. This is me playing against the British government again. The assassinations of these two players will set the cogs in motion for the changes I need. It's a slap in the face. Their departments will be riled at these deaths, further than I've been riling them financially already. There will be public pressure for something to be done. The magnificent city of Cairo will not be considered safe for well-intentioned Englishmen heavily invested in their government, and round and round it will go until they finally decide to send in their grunts to investigate. I'll lead them on a wild goose chase as far into the eastern countries as we can go, picking off their decision makers, and they will keep sending their troops after a ghost. Beneficial for business to have lonely and virile Westerners setting up camp only a few short kilometers from towns I own." Jim stopped to smile. "Also provides an excellent distraction for infiltrating MI6."

Mycroft tilted his head quizzically as he pulled on the new clothing. "Are they actually spies? Or just government officials?" The plan was a good one, but it made Mycroft wonder if he'd ever met either of the targets in question. Perhaps the British government was too extensive for his former self to have met many people. Perhaps they were from departments he'd never interacted with.

"One is only a government official. The other is a spy _and_ a government official. Both are highly vocal and well regarded among the public and among their peers." Jim began unbuttoning his shirt. It looked like he was about ready to strip in the middle of their suite. "Neither have I known personally, nor care to." 

"So Seb kills them, and we both get out before the event security or government agents react... and then you wait for the next stage." Which begged the question - how many jobs did Jim juggle at a time? Too long in between diversions would be painful, and yet Jim had to have more projects cooking on a back burner. Mycroft hadn't been with them long, but Jim was constantly busy - with computers, with phones, and that one time physically leaving to take care of something.

Jim hummed. "Yes, essentially." The shirt fell from his shoulders and was placed on the table. He began undoing his belt. "We won't see the fruits of this particular labor for at least a month, which doesn't matter, as we now have another pressing case to study and places to be." He caught Mycroft's eye so the boy knew he was referring to him. 

Mycroft's gaze trailed down from Jim's face, taking in the angles and planes of his chest and stomach. The bare skin was pleasantly distracting, and the slight curve to Jim's mouth said that he'd noticed the way Mycroft's thoughts had partially derailed. "I don't know enough about neurology to even know how we begin to figure out what's going on."

"Time to study up, then." Jim winked as he lost the belt. He was just about to drop his trousers when his phone sounded. He glanced at the screen before picking it up, speaking Arabic. A minute later he hung up and moved toward the door just before a knock came. He opened it on a young bellhop who held a large package and looked decidedly surprised at Jim's lack of a shirt. "Ah, your clothes have arrived," he called over his shoulder. 

Mycroft hung back and kept himself out of the bellhop's line of sight. It would be difficult enough to explain away their relationship, half-clothed as they were, but even more so with Mycroft half-dressed in women's clothing. "That's fortunate. At least we can take them with us. I really don't want to have to go shopping a _third_ time." The thought came with another pang of guilt - Sherlock had been left with a number of reminders of his brief presence in 221B, which wouldn't have made his disappearance any easier on his brother.

Jim gave the young man a falsely cheerful smile before he took the package and shut the door in his face. 

"Pick something out," he said, setting the large package down on the table next to the smaller pile of Egyptian garments. "We need to be able to switch out of the disguise quickly when it's over, and I'd prefer us be ready for the flight back to London. We won't be returning to the hotel." 

Mycroft nodded and unwrapped the parcel. He tried to keep things as neat as possible as he dug through the clothing so that he could rebundle everything with minimum fuss. It wasn't terribly surprising that the boy chose from the more casual garments contained inside - if they were going to be flying for a few hours, he wanted to be _comfortable_. Mycroft tugged a printed blue t-shirt, black jeans, and a dark grey jacket out of the package and closed it back up. 

Jim wandered off to their room, losing his trousers on the way, to find himself a lighter suit. His choices were more casual, although not as casual as Mycroft’s. Returning to the table, he began unfurling the fabric of their disguises. It was perfect, really -loose fitting skirts that hung to the ground, a long shirt, and a shawl that went over Jim's head and around his shoulders and resembled a cloak. The subdued colors and the look itself would blend well with the crowd on the streets. 

Jim bent before he finished to help Mycroft into his own clothes. 

Skirts were... unusual. Mycroft had worn a kilt a couple of times before during trips north to Scotland, but never enough to get used to the feeling. Longer skirts were even more different, flowing around his legs in ways he wasn't accustomed to and making him feel like he was going to trip. "We're not going to have to run in these, are we?" he asked as Jim helped him put on and adjust the top layers. 

Jim giggled. "I should nope not. The shots will cause a stir, and we may have to walk quickly. We won't be the only ones trying to get out of there in a hurry, but it shouldn't cause an all-out panic. We'll have a driver waiting for us nearby." 

Once Jim was finished tying the last bit of the shawls, they could hardly recognize one another. For all intents and purposes, they looked like a pair of Muslim women, most likely a mother and daughter. Once on the streets, they would be as normal as every other pair stopping for lunch on a quick errand. 

"It's hard to breathe in this." Even thin as the strip of fabric over his mouth and nose was, it still gave Mycroft the impression that he was locked in a stuffy room. The outfit was more layers than he was used to and had a heavy, restricted feel ... although it wasn't that dissimilar to the feeling of wearing a layered suit. 

Mycroft looked up at Jim and felt another worry prickling at the back of his mind. Disguised like this, it would be difficult to find Jim again quickly if they somehow got separated. "Promise not to lose me?" he asked and slipped his hand into Jim's.

He felt a squeeze in return, and, from the way Jim's eyes crinkled around the corners, he was probably smiling. 

"I won't lose you." 

Sebastian interrupted the moment from the doorway, still dressed casually and nearly as innocuous as Jim and Mycroft in a crowd. "Just checked, their flights are on schedule. The first is landing now." 

"Better be off, then." Jim looked to Mycroft and nodded. 

Mycroft nodded in return and his hand tightened around Jim's. "Let's go, then." He refused to let go as they piled into the lift to descend to their transportation. 

Jim was spending a good deal of time, money, and trouble to indulge him, Mycroft realized. They hadn't _had_ to go out onto the streets to look at historical sites and try the local fare. They also didn't have to be doing _this_ \- Jim had probably seen dozens of these assassinations before, and Sebastian was perfectly capable of completing this task on his own. The only reason Jim had bought these clothes and was risking being at the scene of the crimes, as far as Mycroft could see, was because Mycroft wanted to see Sebastian's work.

"Thank you," he murmured. Jim's indulgence was more than a little touching.

The criminal's eyes darted down to him. "You're most welcome," Jim said with a touch of warmth in his voice. 

Behind them, Sebastian was fighting a smile. Apparently he thought this whole thing was rather endearing. Or maybe it was just their clothing. Probably a bit of both. 

The lift chimed and they were on the ground, making their way to the garage. Sebastian, with his nondescript carrying case in hand, split off to the side of the hotel and was gone. 

Waiting for Jim and Mycroft was a small black car. Jim waved, his Arabic voice now suddenly different, higher and accented and _very_ much like a woman's, and gave the man a few notes before the driver opened the door for them. 

Mycroft scooted into the vehicle, wide-eyed and cautious. Jim followed right behind him, and suddenly they were off, moving through the streets and winding their way into the city. Mycroft wondered if he was supposed to stay quiet the entire time; they were pretending to be locals, after all, and he didn't speak a word of Arabic. The disguises might be perfect, but he could break the illusion simply by making the mistake of opening his mouth.

Jim made it easier on him and didn't speak either, not until they had travelled across downtown, close to the business district of the city and their driver parked. Jim thanked him and explained, assumedly, that he was to wait there for them until they had finished their business and returned. The driver seemed all too happy to oblige. Jim was surely paying him extra for such a pleasant attitude. 

Jim took Mycroft's hand and they made their way into the pedestrian traffic, meandering toward a large hotel. 

Mycroft stuck close to Jim's side and followed his lead, never letting go of his hand. Being taken as a local was a different experience; they weren't looked at quite as much because they blended into the crowd, but there were also a lot more people hawking their wares and trying to get them to make a purchase. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief once they made it through the doors of the hotel and into the cooler interior.

Jim led him to the small cafe on the ground floor and spoke to a waitress. To Mycroft's misfortune, but at Jim's request, she seated them on the patio just outside of the hotel. Some of the air from inside wafted over them, but just barely, making warmth of the day only just tolerable under several layers of clothes. Jim ordered for the both of them, tea and a small plate of pastries, just enough to keep them occupied until the show arrived. 

Mycroft stared as their order swiftly materialized, trying to calculate how he was supposed to eat and drink with a veil in the way. He watched Jim take a pastry and slip his hand behind the panel of fabric, then followed his lead. It was awkward, and he had to take more time to be careful of what he was doing, but Mycroft found that he could still eat and drink just fine. " Puis-je parler, ou est-ce dangereux?" he asked softly, figuring that French might draw less attention than English.(Can I speak, or is that dangerous?)

Jim responded in English, not caring now that they were alone. "You can talk as much as you'd like. In fact, we should look like we're deep in conversation. Do so quietly enough and out of earshot of the waitstaff and no one will notice what language we're speaking." 

Their closest neighbors were a few seats down from them; a pair of Israeli men also engrossed in conversation and next to them a family who were more than likely local to Cairo. 

Mycroft nodded and swallowed a bite of pastry, maneuvering his teacup with a measure of awkwardness in order to wash it down. "How long will the wait be, do you think? I don't imagine set-up will take that long." Even with Seb having to piece the rifle together, it shouldn't take more than a few moments. "Are we watching from here, or are we just biding time?"

"You see that roundabout?" Jim nodded to the hotel's entryway off the street. "I estimate he'll be arriving there within…20 minutes and heading straight past us on the way into the hotel. He won't be nervous yet. He's just arrived, has traveled this route a half dozen times, and doesn't know there's a plot against his life in the works." 

Between the people on the patio, those moving along the street between the buildings around them - another hotel, a bank, and a few corporate offices - and those going in and out of the hotel behind them, very few would have felt unsafe. 

"How much of a time delay will there be between the two?" Depending on the time and distance, the second kill might prove more problematic. The second man might be warned to expect an assassination attempt and be more on guard.

The crowd wasn't extremely thick, but there were enough people that a kill wouldn't fail to spatter someone with blood and debris. The thought left Mycroft wondering about bullet calibers and whether there would be any collateral damage among passersby.

Jim seemed to know where his question was leading. "Not very long, and that will be the difficulty. When it's over, we'll have only a minute to watch the crowd and see the panic set in." Besides getting to their next location as fast as possible, the local police would be on the scene shortly after, probably locking down the area and looking for witnesses. They wouldn't be able to linger.

Mycroft nodded. He wouldn't get to see things for very long, but that was better than seeing nothing at all. It was the price paid for killing in such a sensational, shocking, public manner. "Does it happen like this a lot? Public, out in the open? Or do most of them happen behind closed doors?"

"All depends on what type of murder I'm going for, darling." Jim was definitely smiling behind the cloth. "If it's political, public or compromising is best, anything to send a message. If it is a personal matter, or a covert one, a degree of subtlety is called for. There are far more of those than the former." Jim took another sip of tea and looked out among the crowd, specifically honing in on an approaching silver Audi. "So yes, this is somewhat of a rare treat. And I believe our guest of honor has just arrived."

Mycroft turned and caught sight of what had grabbed Jim's attention. The sleek vehicle wove through traffic and drew nearer to the hotel. The windows were tinted, making it difficult to determine the number of occupants. The Audi came to a stop and someone who could only be part of a security detail got out. He scanned the area, but it was quick and careless; they must have come here before, enough times that they felt secure. The man stooped slightly and opened the rear passenger door.

A white male with a bit of paunch and roughly fifty years of age stepped out, looking every bit the essence of a British government official. He awkwardly carried a briefcase and a messenger bag, both heavy and obviously meant for the long journey. There was no mistaking him for anything other than a foreigner on business. Quickly, so as to get settled all the sooner, he began ambling with his attendant and security man toward the hotel. 

They waited and Jim's hand brushed against Mycroft's. "Seb's going to let him get as close as he can," he whispered, satisfaction evident in his tone, "He's giving us a show." 

Mycroft's hand clenched against the table. His grey eyes tracked the man above the veil. As their target drew closer, the boy's eyebrows slowly drew together. There was something about the man, something that he couldn't quite put a finger on. He didn't look any different than a number of government bureaucrats and office workers, more accustomed to a sedentary life behind a desk than anything else, but there was an itch at the back of Mycroft's mind that wouldn't quite go away.

A wet crack split the air and Mycroft jumped at the sound. Seb had used a suppressor, but nothing was muffling the sound of impact. From the look on the man's face as he slid sideways and toppled to the ground, he hadn't even had enough time to sense the danger and feel fear. Flecks of blood and gore covered the front of the hotel in an arc, originating from the body that was hemorrhaging a dark puddle on their doorstep.

Around them, heads turned. There was a moment of stillness, of uncomprehending gazes following the lines of sight of everyone else around them to land on the man who had fallen at the entryway, before people began to move. One or two hotel attendants moved forward, not having seen the blood. Once a few had seen the full extent of the gore and processed what had happened, they began to move away quickly. 

Jim rose from his seat, taking Mycroft's hand and leaving a few notes on the table. As fascinating as it was to watch the crowd realize what was going on, they had to leave. 

Mycroft gave the body one last backward glance and let Jim whisk him along to the exit. Full panic hadn't set in yet, so it wasn't as difficult to navigate through the crowd as Mycroft might have expected. The boy moved on automatic - his mind was replaying the kill, the expression on the target's face and the way the side of his head had opened up and the bright, vibrant red of the blood that had poured out.

Jim glanced down at him once or twice on the way back to their driver, like he could see the expression on Mycroft's face even though it was covered. It made the older man infinitely pleased and it showed in the squeeze of his hand against the boy's. 

They made it back to their car and got in quickly, the driver completely unaware of any disturbance at the hotel down the street. Jim instructed him where to go again, and they were already three streets away before they heard the wail of sirens behind them. 

Mycroft's hand tightened around Jim's as the car put more distance between them and the first victim. He lifted Jim's arm and tucked himself underneath, feeling the older man's body heat underneath the layers of fabric. He didn't want to speak in the car and alert their driver to the fact that he wasn't local or Jim's daughter, which left him alone in the silence, simmering in his own thoughts.

Jim’s hold on him was different than usual, more doting, more…outwardly familial, but their driver could see them in the mirror if he looked and Jim was playing the game. He wouldn't hold the boy like he usually did until they were back on the plane. 

Their second location was far enough away for it to be a challenge. Fifteen minutes later Jim caught a text from Seb that they would need to hurry. Although the two flights had been scheduled nearly an hour apart, a certain amount of dawdling on the part of their targets narrowed their window of opportunity. 

They found the second hotel amid a block of high end retail outlets. Jim took Mycroft's hand, paid the driver and saw him off before they hurried along. "We'll catch a ride with Seb on the way out. In the meantime, pretend we've just been shopping and we'll get close." With quick hands, he snagged a small shopping bag that had been falling out of a bundle held by a woman coming in the opposite direction. She walked on with her friends, none of them the wiser. 

"Ok." Mycroft laced fingers with Jim again and they drew closer to the hotel. The boy scanned through the crowds but couldn't see the second target yet, not even a car that looked promising. "There was something weird about the first one," Mycroft said quietly, doing his best to keep them from being overheard. 

"'Weird'? What do you mean, 'weird'?" Jim took them along the walkway to the hotel, past the shops and the juice stands until they found a bench positioned neatly beside the front doors. They had made it with enough time to spare, it seemed. They sat down and looked as though they were waiting for someone. Jim turned to Mycroft, setting the bag beside them to discourage anyone else from occupying the bench. 

People passed in and out of the doors, but none paid them any attention. 

"I can't figure it out, but there was something about him, even though he just looked like... a regular office worker or politician." Mycroft kept surreptitiously glancing up and down the street, looking for the first signs that the action was about to start. His shoulders began to tense. "I felt weird when I first saw him get closer and got a better look. Like I'd noticed something but couldn't point to what yet, just that something was off."

Jim sat quietly for a few moments before he spoke. "It's very likely you would have known him. You were heavily involved in the department of defense, where he has likewise worked in the past. If he were an acquaintance outside of work, I was not aware of it." Which was saying something, for Jim. Then again, it was Mycroft's life they were talking about. There was surely much Jim didn't know about a man who had kept himself so very sequestered away from the world for so long. 

Mycroft's reply was cut short as a car pulled to a stop in front of the hotel. Two suits stepped out this time, their eyes scanning the crowd and nearby buildings for signs of trouble. Mycroft turned his gaze away and looked at Jim instead. With the veil in place, Jim's eyes were inscrutable dark pools.

" _Show time,_ " Jim whispered. 

This time, the man who exited the car behind the security detail was much younger, mid to late thirties and sporting the stance and stride of a man who knew where he was going and what he wanted. Unmistakably British or American, he walked ahead of the guards with purpose, just as eager to get settled in and down to business as the last target. 

The muscle around Jim's eyes tightened cruelly, looking like he would be happy to see this one go down. 

Mycroft knew this one. The memory wasn't buried under the surface like an itch in deep muscle tissue, but vivid, fluttering into view as soon as he caught sight of the man. He could even remember the sound of his voice as he walked through the office to get debriefed on the latest situation. He'd not been with Intelligence for that long, but he'd been one of the unusual ones that hadn't been scared off by the office gossip and Mycroft's odd mannerism and cold persona. He'd stopped and tried to be sociable every now and again - even once joined in with a few of Mycroft's direct reports to try to get him to join them for a more casual social affair.

"Timothy Randall Harris," Mycroft whispered, pulling the name from memory. He could even remember the man's badge number.

Jim's eyes snapped down to the boy. The target was heading closer still and Jim would miss the killing shot if he didn't look up, but he didn't take his gaze off Mycroft. 

"You remember."

Not a second later, when they could see the white of the man's teeth as he lectured extensively to his security staff, the shot hit. He froze in mid-step, the momentum carrying him forward in suspended motion. Half of his face, where his eye was a moment ago, exploded in the red of an exit wound. 

Jim jumped as though frightened, pulling Mycroft back with him. The short spurt of blood missed them. 

Mycroft blanched in shock, eyes on the body as it fell. He hadn't been particularly close to the man - he wasn't particularly close with _anyone_ he worked with, even his direct underlings - but he'd not experienced the death of someone he knew well before.

Not right in front of him. Not other than coming home to find his own father murdered by a shot to the head. The wounds were even somewhat similar, solidifying the dream memory of that morning even further in Mycroft’s mind as he watched the puddle of blood grow. The sight was cut off by a flurry of activity as the man's security detail snapped into motion. Two men raced off towards a nearby building, trying to find a vantage point to look for the sniper.

Jim drew Mycroft back farther and quickly, the picture of a terrified mother protecting her daughter. They gathered next to a group of onlookers for a moment who were making exclamations in Arabic that Jim joined in on before he pulled Mycroft away again. 

They walked quickly, Jim's step hurried by the revelation of Mycroft's memory as much as the need to get out of there. He was silent, not wanting to draw attention as they crossed the intersection and headed down the street. Two alleys down a familiar car was waiting for them with Seb at the wheel. 

Jim ushered Mycroft inside. The boy went robotically, his mind turned inward instead of paying attention to his surroundings. He was thrown back against the seat as Seb suddenly put the car into motion.

Mycroft didn't even see the buildings passing by outside the windows. Everything was a moving blur, and a ringing in his ears.

Jim stripped the cloth from his face, pins falling into the seat somewhere that could only spell disaster later, and did the same to Mycroft, discarding the veils on the floor. He didn't bother with his seatbelt - he was in Mycroft's face, eyes searching with such intensity that Jim should have been able to see right through him. "You remembered him, his _full name_. What else do you remember?"

"His badge number. He wasn't married, but had a girlfriend. He used to try to get me to open up by bringing me coffee and chatting with... people who work under me, in the same room, I don't-... I can't quite remember them." Mycroft's recitation was flat, automatic, his skin paler than normal. His gaze was far off and glazed in shock. "He and several others kept trying to get me out of the office, to go to a pub with them. And a woman at my left, she laughed and said they hadn't been working Intelligence long enough, or they'd know it was futile to try to pry me away and-... something. It's hazy."

Mycroft frowned. "...Lily, that was it. His girlfriend, short brunette with long hair. He had a picture in his wallet that he showed me once while trying to get me to talk about my life."

Jim exhaled and slumped back against the seat. This was recent, not some memory of decades past, but one that had been jogged by the very sight of the man Mycroft had worked with. Both men, in fact, if one more than the other. Jim shucked the shawl and the extra clothes, squirming out of them, and pulled Mycroft into him. He was tense beneath the boy's small body, and he moved with a degree of hesitance that hadn't been there before. 

"Do you remember anything else about your work?"

"Just that it was somewhere underground, no windows. Lots of... harsh lighting, except it was darker in my room. A wall of screens, and a few people who... worked for me, I think. But kept away from me, like they were a bit afraid. People would come and pick up things, or call me with questions, it was part of Intelligence, but I can't remember anything more than that." 

Mycroft's breathing turned harsh as Jim pulled him closer. He'd not missed the older man's hesitation. Mycroft felt like the walls were closing in on him.

Seeing that Mycroft wasn't pulling away, Jim removed the extra layers of clothing from him so that the world was a little less stifling. He positioned Mycroft back in his lap, awkward as it was in the car. Jim was paying attention to his every movement, every expression, watching for signs of wariness or distrust, but mostly, Mycroft just seemed dazed. 

"Do you remember me?"

Mycroft shook his head, eyes slowly refocusing on the present and the man in front of him. "No, I don't remember you. Not besides... well, when you took me, and everything else. I don't remember meeting you when I was older."

That was it, the reason for the hesitation. Mycroft could see subtle signs of worry in Jim's face. The boy framed Jim's face with his hands. "...what are you afraid of? That I'm going to remember torturing you? That's going to hurt, if I remember it, and I'll probably feel bad about it, but it won't change things."

Jim's gaze was still hard. He relaxed only a little, knowing that for now, Mycroft’s feelings had not changed. Still, it was difficult for him to believe that Mycroft could predict what he would think if he did fully regain his memory. So far, it was looking less like "if" and more like "when". 

"Seems I've made quite an impression on you," Jim said. That was true. For if Mycroft did eventually remember, without the wide-eyed amazement at everything new he could do driving his fascination, this newly formed bond with Jim would be the only thing combatting his earlier recollections of and distaste for the criminal. 

Mycroft's expression fell. His fingers trailed down the sides of Jim's face and dropped back into his lap. "Don't say that, not like that." He wasn't regaining his memories in any particular order, at least not so far. "You're important. I can't remember what you were like then, but you're important now."

Jim wasn't pushing him away, at least. He still had Mycroft straddling his lap, rather than relegating him to the other passenger seat. They regarded each other in silence. "I'm sorry, Jim. I can't help it."

Jim rested his head against Mycroft's. "I'd rather you didn't remember at all." It was not the most pleasant thing to hear. Jim was going to fight against this development with everything he had. He was speaking the truth, but that didn't account for much when the gravity of the situation was steadily increasing. Jim sighed. "We're heading back to London now. Where I can find out what's happened to you." 

Mycroft wound himself around Jim and echoed the man's sigh. He'd not given it much thought that morning, having been quickly distracted by other things, but Harris's execution had paralleled the memory in his dream far too closely. He'd already known his father was dead, but how it had happened, that he was _really gone_ , was finally starting to sink in. It hadn't been a dream. It had been real.

Mycroft hadn't thought he'd miss his father that much. Not after the fight they'd had not that long ago.

Jim's other arm came up around him, perhaps sensing the way his mind was going to a dark place. The criminal squeezed him tightly. 

The drive back to the airport was long, but they sat together in silence just holding on. 

If Mycroft slipped away from him, Jim didn't know what he'd do. The threat of it was creeping up on them and Jim was racing against it. His hopes to discover what was going on in the boy's mind were a desperate shot in the dark at best. Even if he discovered what was going on, it was doubtful he would be able to affect it in time. 

Mycroft finally pressed his lips against Jim's neck, feeling the man's pulse beneath the skin. Jim was just as upset as he was. 

There was nothing to be done for it at the moment. Until they knew more about what was going on, neither of them could hope to stop the process or predict what was going to happen. Mycroft shifted, his mouth trailing higher until he was right beside Jim's ear. All the boy could think of was the way he used to help calm Sherlock down, so he stroked a hand through Jim's ear and began to sing, barely above a whisper.

"La lune, trop bleme, pose un diadème sur tes cheveux roux. De gloire éclabousse ton jupon plein de trous. La lune, trop pâle, caresse l'opale de tes yeux blasés. Princesse de la rue, sois la bienvenue dans mon coeur brisé..."

Dark eyes glanced to him briefly, as though Jim were disconcerted with the notion of someone singing to him, but as Mycroft continued, Jim grew calm. His eyes softened, his grip relaxed, he even tilted his head toward the boy's and sighed softly. 

Sebastian remained silent from the driver's seat, but if his silence said anything at all, it was that he too enjoyed the quiet song. 

Jim's fingers curled at the back of Mycroft's neck, tangling in strands of hair. 

Mycroft kept whispering meaningless trifles after he finished the lullaby, enjoying the way he could feel Jim's body relaxing beneath him. 

"I have so many things I could tell you, things that you don't know. How it was, going out into the countryside, almost completely isolated from the outside world. Little things, how the birds sounded, catching things in snares out in the woods, how cold the pond was, where you could find hedgehogs and badger holes. The cinnamon twists that were sold by the town's one bakery, and you had to walk down a long dirt path to get into town, and you were so cold once you arrived you had to stop for tea by the fireside in the inn. Snatching pieces of candy from glass apothecary bottles in the general store when nobody was looking. Taking things from father's chemical stores and seeing what you could do, and what caught fire."

Jim's lips curled, his eyelids heavy with imagining. "You were a right Tom Sawyer," he whispered back, the gesture teasing, but Mycroft could see how his words caught Jim's mind and filled it up with delicious things, delicious images of the boy in what had been his element. Jim would have loved him then, if he could have seen him. It wasn't the place for the criminal, but Mycroft's words painted a picture so beautiful that it stirred a sense of longing within the man anyhow. Jim turned and brushed his lips against the boy's. 

They were nearing the airport now, merging off the highway and catching sight of the planes lined up along the tarmac. 

Mycroft kissed Jim back softly, then reluctantly pulled back. They had to be ready to get out and get on the plane. Still, Jim looked happier. The distraction had worked just as well on the older man as it had on Sherlock, filling his head with sounds and ideas until his attention was diverted by the baubles dropped in his metaphorical lap. "Maybe, if it still exists, I'll take you someday and show you."

Jim only chuckled, knowing how well he _wouldn't_ fit in a place like that, but he could indulge Mycroft anyway. And maybe even have some fun of his own. "I know you've kept the estate under your name, but you'll have to see if it remains as you remember it." He dove in and caught the boy's lips with his own briefly, eyes glinting with mischief. "I wouldn't mind making some _new_ memories with you there." 

The car pulled to a stop and Sebastian waited for Jim to pull back and let Mycroft off his lap before the bodyguard got out. 

Mycroft grinned at Jim's suggestion. He slid back to let Jim exit the car, following close behind and walking with both men toward their plane. It looked to be the same aircraft, but that didn't necessarily mean that it was.

They'd have a few hours before they landed in Britain, arriving right after dusk. If Jim continued to have his sense of urgency about Mycroft's memory problems, it was likely they'd head right for a medical facility rather than taking the remainder of the day to eat dinner and relax.

Mycroft's prediction turned out not to be far off the mark. Jim spent most of the flight on the phone and on his laptop, finding and conversing with various medical personnel and impersonating government officials in order to learn who they key players had been in making the compound that had caused the accident. Fortunately for him, he already had several functioning personas within the government and didn't have to start completely from scratch. 

They landed in London with the assurance that the documents pertaining to the highly classified chemical compound would be on their way into Jim's possession within the hour, and Jim was determined to hole up within the nearest medical lab they could find. 

A car was ready and waiting for them as soon as they touched down. After a quiet conversation with Jim, Sebastian got behind the wheel and they sped off through the streets of London. The lamplight and drizzle lent an atmosphere that was both gloomy and comforting in its familiarity. Mycroft rode at Jim's side, glancing over the man's hands at the articles and sites littering his laptop screen.

"Can we have dinner brought to... wherever it is we're going?" 

Jim glanced to his side. "Anything you'd like," he said, but was soon distracted again the information in front of him. 

They arrived at a center just outside of the city, and it was easily one of the largest in London. Jim stared out the window for a moment after they parked, like he could battle answers out of the place with his gaze alone. 

"We'll have to be very careful bringing you inside. Keep between Seb and I. There will be security cameras everywhere and we need to keep your face out of them. Once we're inside, we'll be able to cut them and it won't be an issue, but until then…" They were back on familiar territory, and back under the nose of the government that was surely desperately searching for the boy now. 

Mycroft nodded. "Alright." That would make entering the building awkward, but doable. "Will we have to worry about security staff inside the building?" Aside from cameras, it would be problematic if too many people spotted him. It would be better to pass completely unnoticed, but Mycroft didn't know what sort of tests Jim had planned. "What are we going to do?"

"There's no avoiding the staff, but security will be minimal. It's a clinic, shouldn't have more than one or two guards on staff, and they won't be any more knowledgeable than the staff. Still… the more people we can avoid, the better. We'll be meeting with Dr. Nguyen, who has promised me access to and use of much of her lab. She believes I am a scientist under contract with the government. I've advised her not to ask questions, but we should expect them anyway." 

"Do you think she'll talk to people, once we're done?" Mycroft didn't get a response right away. Sebastian had gotten out and opened the passenger door, and now it was time for action. Mycroft shimmied out of the vehicle, staying as close to Sebastian as he could and hiding in his shadow. Jim followed suit. Sandwiched between the two of them, they moved quickly toward the clinic. Mycroft kept his head down to minimize the chances of a camera catching his face.

It looked like they were trying to avoid the drizzle, and fortunately, they weren't the only ones moving in and out of the building like that. Once inside, Jim caught the eye of the receptionist and went up to her with a pleasant gait, one that called to mind more memories of his "Richard" persona than the Jim Mycroft had come to know. 

Jim leaned hesitantly up to her desk while Seb waited behind with Mycroft, noting where the camera was in the room and blocking its view of the boy with his back. With a pleasant demeanor, he introduced himself as an appointment of Dr. Nguyen's and persuaded her into giving him directions instead of calling for the doctor herself to lead them back to her office. 

Mycroft affected an air of chronic shyness, clinging to Seb's arm with both hands and keeping his face turned down and towards Seb's chest. With that body language, Mycroft knew Seb would be assumed to be a close family member or guardian, and that he himself would appear to merely be socially anxious. Odd behavior would be dismissed as part and parcel of that, and staff members would be more likely to give him some space.

Jim got the directions they needed and they were off again, moving through stark monochromatic hallways of white and grey.

Their walk took them up several floors and down to the very end of a long hallway where they found Dr. Nguyen's office. She nearly ran straight into Jim as he raised his hand to knock and she came through the door. Her eyes went wide and her hand went over her heart for the fright he gave her. Maybe instinct had something to do with it, seeing his beady, black eyes in the first second before the sweet presence he'd adopted dropped over his face. But he smiled calmly and held out his hand, which she took once she'd calmed. 

"Dr. Nguyen, so sorry to have frightened you. I'm David Griffin. We spoke over the phone?" 

She smiled in return, embarrassment at her first reaction evident over her smooth features. She was a pretty woman, with long black hair tied behind her in a ponytail, and her face was too expressive to hide it. "I'm so sorry, that was my fault, please come in." 

Dr. Nguyen stepped back to allow them entry. Mycroft loosened his death grip on Seb and finally risked taking a look around.

They were in a control room. Screens and panels filled part of a wall, with a glass window providing a view into the second portion of the room. A scanner of some sort was situated in the middle of that space, white and tubular, with some sort of extended platform that looked like it retracted into the tube. Mycroft remembered something similar to this when he'd first woken up - choking down a foul-tasting liquid, then laying on the platform in a thin paper robe, doing his best to ignore the bright lights and the machine's clicking.

"This must be our patient," she said, indicating Mycroft with a nod. "Have you ever had an MRI scan before?" She wasn't being overly sweet, but her tone was delicate as she spoke to the boy. 

"No," Jim answered for him. "This will be the first, but I'd like to get these scans as soon as possible so that I can go over them." 

She nodded, sensing Jim taking control of the conversation. "I'm still a little unclear as to why you're interested in doing an MRI in concern with repressed memory. Functional imaging in that regard is less exact than you may be hoping for, at least in terms of deciphering what these memories are." 

Jim held up a hand. "I realize, but if you would indulge me anyway." 

"Alright," she tightened her mouth and nodded, "At least it's on the government's funds and not mine." 

Mycroft waited patiently for her to talk him through the steps, nodding absently as she explained the mechanics and ushered him into a side room to change. It was simple enough to block most of her words out, retaining just enough to know when he needed to nod or give a few words in response. 

Soon enough he was being led back through the control room and towards the scanner, shivering in a too-big paper dressing gown. The doctor had failed to find a gown in his size, so they had to make do. Mycroft gave Jim an uncertain look through the glass window pane, but he accepted Dr. Nguyen's help in getting up on the scanning table. He shut his eyes and lay down, hands clenched at his sides.

Jim watched like a great big bird of prey through the glass as she moved to the control monitor of the machine. She instructed Mycroft to lie perfectly still, or they would have to do the scan again. Once he was ready, she moved the table into position and began the scan. It was loud at first, the noise coming from within the walls of the machine, but other than that nothing happened for the five minutes it took for the doctor to finish. 

Mycroft stayed still. Staying calm was another matter. All he could do was worry about what might show up on the screen. Would it be different than the scans they'd done on his first day? The government employees had never given him a straight answer about what they'd found; they had simply been convinced that he hadn't retained any critical knowledge that might make him a security danger, then released him into Sherlock's care.

When it was over, Dr. Nguyen slid the table back out and gave him a pat on the arm. "All done," she said. "You did very well." She would have been accustomed to her patients being claustrophobic inside the machine itself, unaware that Mycroft had more concerning thoughts on his mind. 

She let him back into the changing room while she went to speak with Jim. 

Mycroft redressed as quickly as possible, feeling every bit of the lead weight in his stomach. He both wanted to know... and he didn't. Mycroft knew ignoring the data wouldn't make the problem go away, they needed to analyze it and _plan_... but part of him was terrified. It was the same dreamlike terror that had touched him when he'd woken up and been told he was decades into the future and his parents were dead. All he could do was see what fate had in store for him and work with it as best he could.

When he returned to the control room, Jim was nodding along to something Dr. Nguyen said. He saw the boy in the doorway and broke off the conversation, beckoning him inside. Sebastian stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, strengthening the notion that they were there together, that Seb was his guardian and Jim was the third party. 

"You can wait in the workroom next door until the images are ready," the doctor said. "If you need anything, let me know."

Mycroft swallowed, looking beyond Dr. Nguyen to Jim, but he reached out to take Seb's hand and let himself be led away. The bodyguard towered over him, making him feel that much smaller in the sterile, utilitarian surroundings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft isn't French, per se, but the extended blood relations are (as per Holmes canon, where the family can trace roots back to Émile Jean-Horace Vernet), so both Holmes brothers were taught French at a young age. The lullaby he sings is Complainte de la Butte, which can be listened to here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBrRQNxj4xM
> 
> Other songs that I have on my personal soundtrack for this fic that summon mental images of young Mycroft singing and playing the piano (which he can, in this particular setting):
> 
> Coeur de Pirate - Cap Diamant: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itGkNAoA3tI  
> Coeur de Pirate - La Petite Mort: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qDturpwxal0
> 
> -Silus


	13. Chapter 13

The workroom had a couple of chairs, a table, and a desk, much like what could be found in a normal practitioner's examination room. Mycroft levered himself up onto the padded table and regarded Seb with haunted eyes. 

The man's lips quirked at the sight of Mycroft on the doctor's table while they waited for Jim. It seemed Seb didn't have any qualms about respecting the gravity of the situation because he leaned against the wall, folded his arms over his chest, and didn't take his leering gaze off the boy. "Ready for your examination?" he asked with a quirk of his brow. 

"... _that's_ what you're thinking about? _Now?_ " As much as Mycroft could appreciate the experience of having one's mind perpetually fixated on the gutter or some other dark, hidden place, sex was currently the last thing on his mind. "Jim is checking out my brain to see how damaged I am, and whether I'm going to suddenly change personalities and... betray you both, or something, and you want to continue what we started at the restaurant? In a place where we can get caught? In a building full of cameras?"

Seb chuckled, a sound that came from deep within his chest. "Hey, there's always time to enjoy the baser pleasures life has to offer. Especially when even I can see it'd be a race against time to reverse whatever changes your personality is going through, _if_ it can be changed. If you betray us, then I'll deal, but for now? You haven't. And it doesn't look like you want to, either." That may have been his way of saying he was throwing down his chips in Mycroft's favor as Seb didn't move from the wall to advance on the boy. 

Fortunately, it was then that Jim joined them and broke the moment.

Mycroft's mixed look of annoyance transitioned back into general anxiety. He felt rooted to the table as Jim slipped through the doorway into the room. "Well? Did you find anything? Any damage spots?" Damage might mean that bits of his memories were permanently lost. Perhaps they'd even be able to tell if he had the typical brain structures for his age, rather than those of an adult. If the structures were changed, it was far more likely that most of his old memories had been physically overwritten.

Jim went to him and put a hand on the back of his neck. "She's printing the images now. We don't know yet, and I have a feeling we won't know until I have a chance to study them extensively. She has, however, invited us to use her expertise and equipment, provided I cover the costs, whenever needed. I'll have much to study tonight." 

"H-how... long do you think it will take? Before we know?" The weight of the question hung in the air between them, with all the unspoken twists and turns the answer could make. "Are we staying here for a while yet, then?" If they were going to be using the specialized equipment, they would need to. Which meant staying confined to the uncomfortable workroom for a few hours, avoiding the security feeds in the hallways.

"I'm going to study what I can here. They have a database of images I can use to compare to yours. If I can find a pattern, I need to do it as quickly as possible." Jim sighed. "Seb, take this two doors down, you'll find their server storage, leave it in one of the towers. Doesn't matter which. It'll take out surveillance, and make it look like a software error." He handed a flash drive to the bodyguard who took it without question. 

"We should get him something to eat, huh?" Seb asked, surprisingly thinking of Mycroft's needs before Jim. 

"Go down to the cafeteria, or order a pizza, I don't care; just stay out of sight," Jim waved his hand. 

Mycroft flashed Seb a grateful look. He slid off the table and wrapped Jim in a quick embrace. "Let me know what you find. Even... even if it's bad," he intoned. "And we'll figure things out from there together."

Perhaps with Sebastian as company, the wait wouldn't be that bad. They'd be able to talk, and Mycroft would get his mind off of things, if only for a little while. "Will they let us get pizza in here? I'm guessing the cafeteria food is gross."

"They'd better," the bodyguard scoffed, already taking out his phone and dialing. "Pepperoni? Everybody likes pepperoni. Pepperoni it is." He held up his finger, asking for one second while he left for the server room, on the phone all the while. He returned with a quick thumbs-up and motioned for the boy to join him. "Alright, surveillance is out, pizza's ordered, all's clear. C'mon." They left Jim and his investigation in the hall, and went in search of the cafeteria. 

Mycroft gripped Seb's hand tight as they walked down the hallways, watching with mild interest as doctors and patients shuttled about. A few were being pushed in wheelchairs, but they were in the wrong ward of the clinic for seeing anything terribly dramatic. There were no ER pages and people zooming by on wheeled beds.

Luckily for them, the clinic had very clear signage. They found the cafeteria without any trouble, but the sight of the room was nearly as depressing as the hallways and examination rooms. Everything was plastic, carefully neutral, and the scent of disinfectant hung in the air. 

"I've never liked coming to places like this."

"Yeah. This shit is going to ruin our pizza," Seb agreed with a wrinkle of his nose. "Let's see if we can get up to the roof." He flashed the boy a grin and led him back down the hall. Without the cameras, all they had to do was avoid the people. Seb found the stairwell, which wasn't locked and looked like it was regularly used, so even though they moved in out of sight, it wouldn't have seemed strange if they'd been noticed. He took them to the top and jimmied the lock on the door, opening it to the cool night air. It was still drizzling, but having been out of London for a few days, the feel was more welcome than not. 

Mycroft breathed in the familiar, damp air, looking out over the edge of the rooftop to the streetlights dotting the darkness. The echoing thrum of vehicles was constant, even at night, a low buzz that sank into the bones and synced you with the heartbeat of London. 

Mycroft turned back to find Seb leaning up against the stairwell wall, arms crossed, just as he'd been in the workroom below. "How can you be so calm about everything?"

The man lit a cigarette, probably glad to be outside. The glowing end of the lighter lit his face for a brief moment as he inhaled and then flicked it shut. "What are you really worried about? All this… whether your memories come back or not, it's going to be up to you to stay or leave. And I get that, that's a lot of pressure." Seb shrugged one shoulder. "But this thing that happened to you, that part of it's out of your control. If you choose to, you can fight it with everything you have." 

"I'm worried about... dying, in a way." And that was the core of it. Mycroft knew what he wanted to do and where he wanted to be _right now_ , and he didn't like the tidbits that he'd learned about his older self, and the thought that his personality and desires would revert back with the recovery of his memories was... terrifying. "I don't know if it's going to overwrite me or not. Memories are a big part of who people are, what shapes them. Whatever happened the first time around, it turned me into someone I don't want to be."

Sebastian chewed on that for a while. "Can't say that's an identity crisis I've had myself," he said eventually. "But it seems to me you became that way for a reason. Won't pretend I know what it was, but with or without your memories, it's gonna be you." He inhaled again before his phone beeped in his pocket. He looked at the screen. "Pizza's here. Why don't you hang out up here while I run and get it." 

"Yeah, sure." Seb disappeared back through the door and Mycroft sighed. He wandered closer to the edge of the rooftop, not caring that his clothing was getting slowly soaked through by the drizzle. 

Echoes of their earlier kills kept filling the boy's mind. He did have a sense of loss about what happened to his father, sadness and a feeling of guilt, but deep at the core was a bit of relief. Kind as their father had been, he'd always bowed to their mother in everything, and certain prejudices of that generation had still been present. Something in the bond between them had severely frayed the day his parents had figured out that he had no interest in settling down with a nice woman and continuing the family line in the future. The fight had ensured that Mycroft avoided his parents and the household staff as often as he could, spending all of his time alone, with Sherlock, or in town with the local children.

His former coworker's death had been shocking, but it was mostly because Mycroft had remembered bits of the man's life in context. If someone had commented to the boy that it was a sad end, Mycroft probably would have agreed. On an intellectual level, he understood that that, but the feeling didn't quite touch him. He'd nearly gotten bloodstains on his clothing, and all he could remember was the man's interesting expression as he died.

Seb returned a short time later, barging the door open with his shoulder, arms full with a pizza box and soda cans. He took one look at Mycroft looking out over the city and motioned him over with a toss of his head. "Hey there, don't go getting all sentimental on me. We've got a pizza to destroy." He gave the boy a wolfish grin and held the door.

Mycroft huffed and rolled his eyes, but he scurried over without hesitation. He _was_ hungry. At least Sebastian seemed to have a solidly upbeat demeanor that never quite went away... even if it wasn't what most people pictured with 'upbeat'. The metal door closed behind them and they descended the stairwell together. Mycroft's stomach growled just from the smell of the pizza. "Seb? What did you do before you decided to work with Jim?"

The man seemed caught off guard by the question. He glanced at Mycroft while they walked down the hall and back to the cafeteria. He swallowed and reset his expression, mentally preparing himself for what could very well be a long story. 

Lucky for them, the cafeteria was empty. Seb picked a table in the corner anyway, where he could see the room and had a clear shot to the door. They sat down and he opened the box, visibly mulling the question over in his mind. "Well… you know I was a colonel. When Jim found me, I was in prison. Military prison."

"Yeah. I figured it was... y'know. Because you wanted to keep hunting, and similar things, but you got caught doing it or the people you were working with decided to get rid of you." Mycroft kept close watch on Seb's expression to see if he was pushing the man too far. "I just don't know how bad prison was for you, or how long you were there before Jim got you out."

The man's smile tightened around the edges. Obviously the memory was a bitter one. "Yeah, something like that. I had my hands in all sorts of shit. Wasn't above lying and cheating a man out of the games we had running, cards, bets, you name it. The troops'd look the other way on how I dealt with the locals, women don't come crying to your superiors and a dead man here and there could be ignored, but it didn't help much that I wasn't so easy on the guys on our side who pissed me off either. The hunting wasn't looked so fondly upon, same as the racketeering, but mostly it was the guys who'd end up dead after dealing with me that they didn't take kindly to." Seb took a moment to flick a piece of pepperoni into his mouth, something more serious caught in his tone even though he was fighting it. "And yeah, it was a hellhole. Thought I'd be there for the rest of my life. Prison doesn't fix a man. Just makes him angrier." 

Mycroft could imagine. Especially if you were trapped without an outlet. People needed more than just the most basic, minimum physical requirements for survival. Mycroft ploughed through most of his slice as he considered his next words. "How did Jim find you? Did he come looking for you specifically, or was it luck?" Either way, the boy could see how Jim would retain Sebastian's permanent favor. If Mycroft had been locked away in the family "vault" long enough to give up hope of escape, he would have followed whoever released him.

"Oh he came looking for me specifically. He needed somebody like me," Seb gave a small laugh. It might have been directed at himself more than anything. "See, Jim needed somebody who was willing to put up with anything, and I mean _anything_. Business aside, personally, he's got some… rare tastes, and even some hired guns draw the line at helping their boss go after kids. Jim doesn't get along so well with people _'like him'_ , too much jealousy and competition there I guess, and _nobody_ competes with him, so he sought out the best shot with the least morals who wasn't locked up for being the same kind of pervert he was, and I turned out to be top of the class." The ex-colonel flashed white teeth. Then he paused, glanced down at the half circle of cheese and pepperoni between them, "Jim knows how to work people over. Now, I know how to do it for a night, or for a week, or however long it takes to pull off a scheme, but when I turn it on, it's all surface. Jim _really_ knows how to do it. When he found me, he knew I'd be the one to follow him to the ends of the earth and back, and he made sure of it."

Mycroft nodded, absorbing that information. A flicker of doubt whispered at the back of his mind that he was being played, but it didn't seem possible. Jim was good at playing a role, but some of the things he'd shown Mycroft seemed... too deep, too personal, too _fragile_ for the man to want to fake them. With little reason to do so, considering that Mycroft was already willing to go along with him. 

"How many?" he asked, stealing another slice from the box. At Seb's quirked eyebrow, Mycroft swallowed his bite of pepperoni and clarified. "How many have you taken... y'know. Before me." He was guessing that Jim probably didn't keep them for very long.

Seb's mouth pulled into a bitter line, making his smile look too austere to be anything other than a warning sign. "I don't think that's a road you want to go down, do you? It's not always like that, anyway…. Like I said, Jim's good at worming his way into regular peoples' lives. He'll disappear for a while and become somebody else. People rarely get killed unless something goes wrong, and I don't have to kidnap anybody unless he's in a real mood. And if we're east of Egypt, he'll wander off to a brothel or wherever, and I'll just make sure he's not followed." The man shrugged. He knew this wasn't good news for Mycroft, and he didn't look happy to tell it, but Seb was nothing if not bluntly honest with the boy. "I'll tell you this though, there's never been anyone like you."

Mycroft could believe that much, and it was more than just the fact that he was still with them instead of dead in a ditch. Jim had actually listened to what he'd had to say and indulged his whims and curiosities.

The boy stared at Seb in silence, trying to discern more answers from sight alone. "And you weren't interested in the others before."

That got Seb to laugh. "No, never really understood the appeal. And he wouldn't have wanted me to, either. In case you haven't noticed, Jim's had me wrapped around his little finger. Not that I haven't gotten laid plenty, but that's on my own time and far outside his concern. Not sure what's made him change his mind now. You must be making his miserable little heart happy enough to want to share." The truth was, Seb couldn't exactly pin down what it was about Mycroft that made him take such a liking to the boy. It might have been some perfect combination of his sharp intelligence and love of the same things that got Seb off… not to mention the way he looked at the man with stars in his eyes, and Seb never could resist flattery. "I think maybe you're just too damn cute."

Mycroft obviously didn't know what to make of that. Color tinged his cheeks and he opened his mouth, only to shut it again when nothing came out. He took a breath and tried again. "Um. Thanks, I guess. Jim has told me... similar stuff, but..." Mycroft shrugged. "I don't know that I really believe it's true. Maybe just true for him. Perspective is funny like that."

Mycroft felt surprisingly relaxed around Seb again, despite the one tense conversation they'd had. Maybe Jim had been teasing him by trying to scare him off. To a certain degree, it had worked. "...are we ok?" Even if Seb _had_ wanted to play rough with him, he wouldn't - not when he knew how Jim would react.

Seb smiled, mostly with his eyes, and took a large bite of pizza. "Yeah, we're ok," he said around a mouthful of cheese. The big man leaned back with his slice and kicked Mycroft's leg underneath the table. The motion was almost playful, enticing him to believe Seb when he said that he didn't harbor any bad feelings about their situation. 

Seb finished the rest of his pizza in another bite and licked his fingers. The act was innocent enough, and they were alone, but if anything could be said about Seb, it was that nothing was ever innocent with him. 

It took Mycroft a moment, but he brightened up a little, smiling around a mouthful of pizza and kicking Sebastian back. His clever grey eyes skimmed the room around them, calculating how much the other people in the room could see. 

The boy's foot returned. And stayed, pressed against the inner thigh of one leg. Mycroft pretended not to be paying attention, but an almost imperceptible shaking in his shoulders told the tale. He was laughing silently under his breath.

The grin tugging at the corners of Seb's lips said he understood the boy's intentions quite clearly. He leaned forward and drew his knees closer together, catching the boy's shin between them and leaning even farther until his elbows were on the table and Mycroft's foot was pressing right _there_. Seb's eyes were on him, a stark hue of the ocean, brought out by the florescent bulbs above them. The man popped another pepperoni in his mouth and hummed pointedly in appreciation before freeing Mycroft's foot. 

A giggle finally broke free from the redhead. As rough as Seb's persona seemed to be most of the time, the bodyguard seemed to soften up around him. It made him not just someone _interesting_ to be around, someone with shared tastes and impressive skills that made Mycroft a bit green with envy, but someone _fun_. The youth couldn't hold onto his melancholy thoughts with Seb keeping him company and keeping him distracted. "Thanks for hanging out with me. And remembering about dinner. I think Jim forgets about food."

"He does." Seb wrinkled his nose. "If I let him cover that department, I'd be as skinny as he is and he'd be down a bodyguard. As it is, he still doesn't eat even half of what I bring home." That said something about Jim's habits. On the other hand, Seb was a big man, he looked like he spent a dedicated amount of time working out, and probably loading up on protein, so less than "half of what he brought home" might still might have been normal portions. "I've got a feeling he'll be locked up with his work for a while, anyway."

"How long do you think he's going to be?" Mycroft was no stranger to the sleepless nights of the insomniac, but usually he was kept awake by something that had caught his interest and turned it to temporary obsession... or by paranoid thoughts and fears. "We're not supposed to draw attention, so there's nothing to do. We can't mess with people, and there's not going to be a library. Just pointless magazines and uncomfortable chairs."

Seb hummed. "Nothing to do. Nothing to do at all…" He folded his arms over one another, casting his eyes about the cafeteria, but it was plain that he had an idea in mind. They had nothing left to eat - the pizza was demolished. All that was left in front of them were crumbs and one or two bread crusts. "Stuck in a hospital, with nothing to see and nowhere to go." His eyes caught on Mycroft as they passed the boy. "Well, that just leaves the perfect opportunity, doesn't it? Follow me." He winked and got up. 

Mycroft stood and picked up the empty box. Tidiness was an instinctual habit with him. His natural tendencies had been encouraged by his parents, to the point that Sherlock had been a source of annoyance as soon as he was capable of wreaking havoc around the house. Mycroft chucked the box in the dustbin and followed Seb out into the hallway.

Mycroft had to quicken his pace to keep up with Seb’s long strides. They went down to ground level and then one floor below it, passing as few people as they could along the way. The signs around them changed from radiology to individual research labs, but this was definitely the quieter side of the clinic. 

Eventually, they happened upon a hall with "Morgue" listed at the end. Seb took a walk down it, stopped at the nearest office and glanced at the hours listed on its directory. 

"Well what do you know, looks like nobody's about," he said with a grin and a wink, but he bypassed the actual morgue and led the boy into the workroom next door. "I'd rather not smell formaldehyde all night."

Mycroft exhaled in relief. He'd not been entirely certain what Seb had had in mind when he'd realized where they were heading. His interests didn't extend to the dead, and he also didn't relish the thought of having the scent of chemicals and sickly sweet decomposition clinging to his skin until he had an opportunity to scrub himself down.

He stepped through the door. Seb closed the door behind them, and it was a measure of how confident Mycroft was of his safety that he didn't feel a twinge of fear at the thought of being locked away in the clinic basement with the bodyguard, too far away from anyone to be heard. 

Seb leaned against the door with a smile on his face and his eyes on the boy. He pushed away from its frame and approached slowly, flipping on a few of the lights as he went so they weren't bathed in complete darkness. 

"Still at a loss for ideas?" he asked, rubbing his hands over Mycroft's shoulders. Seb found a swivel chair and sat down in it, rolling it up to the boy so that he didn't tower over Mycroft. Everything in his gaze and his body language was giving Mycroft suggestions, but Seb was being surprisingly mindful of the boy's reactions. 

"Maybe. Maybe not." Sebastian was still bigger than him, to an intimidating degree, but it was less overwhelming when he was sitting down. Mycroft still felt dwarfed, but less nervous. His gaze turned curious. 

It took a few moments for Mycroft to work up the nerve to step closer. Everything before had been teasing, knowing that things weren't going to go past a certain point. He had no idea what Seb was expecting. After another second of contemplation, Mycroft climbed up and straddled the man's lap. 

He found himself turning shy again under Seb's unwavering blue gaze. 

"Christ, I think I'm starting to get why Jim likes you so much," Seb said in a breath. One of his large hands wrapped around Mycroft's hip and stroked up his side. The thumb of the other teased at the boy's lower lip, brushing over it and pulling it down. Seb's lips spread. Mycroft could feel blood swell the organ beneath him. "You turn from a little devil into something so sweet, so shy." 

The shift of the boy's gaze, the flutter of his pale eyelashes, the soft flesh of his mouth, all of it was enticing. 

Seb was somehow both like and utterly unlike Jim. There were hints of the same predatory smile, but it was a bit more restrained instead of being immediate and glitteringly dangerous. He was steel and gunmetal rather than manipulation and shadow. The most obvious and pressing contrast, however, was _size_. Jim was bigger than him, but it wasn't unmanageable. 

Jim could rip him apart, but Seb could just envelop him, crush him without even meaning to.

Mycroft decided to go with what was a bit more familiar. He nipped at Seb’s thumb, then leaned up, seeking a kiss.

Sebastian met him halfway, bending and trailing fingers up the back of Mycroft's neck before their lips brushed together. The boy was tentative at first, and Seb indulged him, reacting eagerly whenever Mycroft acted. When the boy opened his mouth, Seb did so in return. At the subtle tip of tongue, Seb's swept out to meet his. In spite of his nature, he was being incredibly careful with Mycroft. So far. 

It wasn't until minutes into their kiss that Seb began to take over. His hands were restless over the young body atop his lap, but never rough. While Jim seemed constantly on the verge of letting himself go to madness, Seb remained in complete control of himself. 

Momentum was slow in building. Mycroft had a difficult time wearing away at his shyness and intimidation, even though Seb was being watchful and taking his time. The teasing was impossible to bear, however, and it was gradually prying him out of his shell as he drew on memories of what this was like with Jim. Of where to put his hands, when to press forward, when to taste. Larger hands stroked down his sides and rocked him slightly, the friction drawing attention to the hard heat beneath him, and suddenly Mycroft's fingers latched onto the hem of Seb's shirt. Desire crept through his limbs, leaving his skin tingling as it pooled at his core, and he needed to touch skin.

Seb moved his arms to help Mycroft lift the fabric over his head. It was loose but clung to him in places while he wore it, giving the impression of hard muscle underneath. With it off, however, the expanse of skin below was hard and smooth as marble. Jim had tone, but Seb was carved like a statue. And tan. Of the three of them, the bodyguard was probably the only one who took to lying in the sun on his time off. When he brought his arms down and let the shirt fall to the floor, the muscle shifted, alive under his skin. 

With satisfaction, he caught Mycroft staring. He cupped the boy's face in his hands and, with a small smile about his lips, kissed him again softly. 

Mycroft had never seen anyone who actually _looked like that_. Not naturally. There were works of art, of course, but people he'd seen tended to either be perfectly normal and slightly soft, or dedicated weightlifters who had built themselves into impossible shapes maintained by obsession and drugs. 

Seb's lips were warm under his, and parted, and his taste was different than Jim's but not unpleasant. Mycroft's hands touched Seb's chest, careful and slow, letting his fingers trail lower over firm muscle and skin. He felt a touch at his waist, then pulled back slightly and lifted his arms to allow Seb to remove his own shirt and jacket, still slightly damp from their rooftop visit.

Seb’s lips grinned against his. For the briefest moment Seb twisted the material while it was above Mycroft's head, binding his arms and holding them there, unable to move while the man deepened the kiss, both a tease and a test before he released the boy's arms and dropped the shirt next to his own. Seb had made it clear he wasn't about to take it in that direction, but it didn't stop him from playing, so long as Mycroft allowed it. 

A cold spike of fear shot up Mycroft's spine, quickly followed by a rush of adrenaline and endorphins. He bit at Seb's lower lip in response, reward and punishment combined. Sebastian pulled him in closer, still taking care not to crush him, and a smile curved the edges of Mycroft's mouth. He rocked his hips again, once, twice, then tilted his head to get a better look at the older man's expression.

Seb's lips were parted, teeth clicking lightly together to hold back a groan that came from deep in his chest. He looked a little dazed, and it was probably because he was forcing himself to hold back from simply grabbing the boy and doing whatever he wished right then and there. 

Big hands kneaded the flesh of Mycroft's arse, pulling the boy into contact with Seb's clothed erection again. " _Fuck_ , Myc…"

He'd meant to play with Seb a bit, safe in the knowledge that the older man had rigid self-control and the threat of retribution over his head. Mycroft's own game got turned against him, knocking the breath from his lungs as Seb ground them together. Something about the way Seb could just pick him up, move him effortlessly, was heady and unexpectedly erotic. Fear and power plays were evidently something of a turn-on when Mycroft knew nothing bad was _really_ going to happen. 

"...again?" he whispered. He fell with a grunt against Seb's chest as the older man complied. He dipped two small fingers underneath Seb's waistband.

Seb had to lift Mycroft back far enough to allow space for him to work at the button there, and he helped, moving quickly to open the zipper. The boy's hand pressed over his erection and the difference in size there alone made Seb seriously consider that Jim may be onto something in his tastes. He pressed his palm over Mycroft's, pushing them together to stroke his erection through the last layer of fabric before pulling it out. 

He let go again to pull at the sides of Mycroft's jeans, not bothering with the zipper and buttons, slipping them down over the boy's hips. 

Mycroft's jeans caught on his legs with the awkward angle, requiring him to shift about in order to actually remove them, but he was only half paying attention. 

Mycroft had known that Seb was bigger than Jim in every way, that much was obvious, but it was a little different to have the evidence in hand. He didn't know how this was even going to _work_. He finally managed to tear his gaze away, turning his eyes up to Seb's face and looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights.

Seb chuckled softly. "Now that's flattering," he brushed his thumb over one of Mycroft's heated cheeks, "but that'll have to wait until we've got lube." He didn't want to hurt Mycroft, and there was no question that he really could. Damn Jim and his insistence on bringing the damn stuff everywhere they went but here. They would need a lot of it and a lot of prep in order to accomplish what Seb wished he could do to the boy, so instead he stroked his fingers over Mycroft's erection, palming him while he kissed down his shoulder to ease the worry written across his features. 

Mycroft whimpered as Seb's hand closed over him and warm breath ghosted over his shoulder. Seb's mouth was close to where Mycroft knew Jim's mark was, circular bruises stark against his pale skin. Mycroft was having difficulty focusing, but he managed to get his hand to work. He mirrored Seb's tempo, stroke for stroke, delighting at the sound it provoked. 

Seb was not at all shy about being vocal, even though they had to keep it down just in case someone did happen down that way. 

Sebastian's teeth met Mycroft's neck, nipping lightly, or gripping and holding on like he were about to bite, but the bite never came. If he had, he would have left his own mark next to Jim's. 

Seb’s hips rolled, encouraging Mycroft to work him harder. The boy's hand was so much smaller than Seb's that his strokes had to be longer and his hand had to do a little twisting tease at the head just to touch the entire length. Seb had no such trouble. He pressed Mycroft close with the flat of his hand on the boy's back as Seb worked his small cock. Mycroft’s skin was so smooth and soft that the hand at his back didn't stay there for long. It dipped down and cupped his arse, and the moment it did, Seb's thrusts became more erratic. 

Mycroft's eyes flickered closed. He'd felt Seb's hand sliding lower, gripping for a moment before fingers slid in between his cheeks. They weren't going to go that far, Seb had said as much, but between the predatory mouth on his neck and the possessive, teasing digits circling his entrance and pressing up against his perineum, Mycroft's mind had gone blissfully empty. 

He didn't have to think. There was nothing to think about, in this. He was beginning to improve his skills at reading his own body and the darker corners of his mind, and he knew what he wanted.

Mycroft trusted that Seb would hold onto him and keep him in place. His other hand joined the first to help compensate for the smaller size, and Mycroft began to work them both over Seb's cock faster, letting the older man thrust between them when he needed to.

Seb groaned, nearly smashing their bodies together with enthusiasm at first. Between his arm around the boy's back and his grip on his front, Mycroft was not going anywhere. "God I want to fuck you so bad," he breathed. After moistening the tip of a finger, he pressed into the small body atop his lap. When he couldn't take it anymore, he lifted Mycroft effortlessly with him as he stood, wrapping the boy's legs around his waist until they lowered to the floor. He stretched the boy out next to their discarded clothing. Mycroft was all pale skin and small limbs, pliable and willing to be arranged how Seb wanted them as the man leaned half over him, allowing his weight to press into the boy as they stroked one another. 

Mycroft didn't seem intimidated by Seb’s admission, nor by the way he was, more or less, trapped by Seb's weight and hands against the floor. A gasp clawed its way out of his throat at the way the bodyguard was looking at him. Seb had a tight leash on himself, but at the moment it was strained. He had the same sort of toothsome hunger that Mycroft saw in Jim.

"Later. We can try it later." Words dripped heavily off his tongue. He sealed the promise with a twist of his wrist, recoating his hand with precome and sliding back down over the head of Seb's cock. Part of Mycroft's consciousness whispered to him not to push Seb's control too much.

Seb buried his face in Mycroft's neck, thrusting in the tight space the boy made with his hands. He licked his fingers again and wrapped them around Mycroft's length while teasing again at his hole from behind. "Later better come fuckin' quick," Seb growled. He pushed one digit inside, working it in slowly with only saliva easing the way, but once it was in, he knew how to move it in time with his strokes. 

Mycroft's shoulders were tense with the effort he was exerting on Seb. He would never have particularly wide shoulders, but with the strain and the way the dip between his neck and clavicle stood out, Mycroft seemed fragile. It made Seb want to lose control that much more. 

Saliva didn't make a very good lubricant. Penetration was rougher than Mycroft liked, similar to what Jim had tried with him in the shower, but it burned all the more due to Seb's size. His fingers were larger and rougher than Jim's - the fingers of someone who did rough work with his hands, rather than spending most of his days tapping on keyboards and screens.

Mycroft hissed as Seb pressed in, then began working him in time with his other hand. Blue eyes stared down at him and pierced him right through. Mycroft followed the line of his gaze. His hands tightened in anticipation and began to stroke the older man faster. "You can," he whispered. He wouldn't mind another mark next to Jim's. "Not too hard."

Seb's teeth flashed in a satisfied grin before he bent his head, licked over the mark Jim had left, and bit and sucked just below it. His whole body tensed with his concentration, enjoying the feel of Mycroft's soft body pressing against him. He was so small, so breakable if Seb wasn't careful, but for once the man forced himself to be. He needed to be, for the sake of Jim and for the sake of Mycroft ,whom he was fast growing fonder of with every passing day. To keep that, Seb was willing to deny himself the pleasure of taking the boy in every way he wanted. There would be nothing left in the end if he did. 

Seb's care was rewarded with a delicious amount of squirming and a satisfying moan. The suction hurt, broke the small blood vessels beneath Mycroft's skin and left a blossoming red mark that would bruise over. The slight pain sharpened the boy's senses everywhere else, causing him to buck against Seb's hands.

Between the two criminals, Mycroft was going to be utterly destroyed. They were laying claim to his body and mind, piece by piece, leaving marks on his core as well as his skin. 

Pressed beneath Sebastian, Mycroft felt like heaven. He could see the appeal Jim had seen now and was quickly becoming addicted to everything about it - from the boy's soft voice, groaning out pants that could never be as deep as Seb's own, to his small, open mouth, to the way he screwed his eyes shut and tensed in pain and then pleasure every time Seb moved his finger or countered it with a well-placed stroke of his hand. Mycroft’s legs spread underneath him, hiking his knees up, pressing against him and moving to find a better angle, and Seb loved the feel of it, the sight of it, _everything_. His world contracted down to the small body beneath him, pushing into Mycroft's hands and nearly losing it. 

Underneath the sweetness and the implied innocence of Mycroft's boyish frame was something else, the spark he shared with both men. He arched against Seb, watching with half-lidded eyes for just the right moment. Seb's shoulder came close enough that he finally snapped at it, trying to sink teeth into the sculpted muscle. Mycroft was caught between the desire for the bodyguard to overpower him and take control of everything, and the wish to trick him, trap him somehow. Having someone that much bigger and more powerful caught and at his mercy was a siren song in his mind.

The bite did get Seb to toss his head back and groan. Mycroft was not gentle about it, and Seb preferred it that way. Mycroft could never physically overpower him, but Seb liked the struggle. He liked the violence of it, of being fought, and of winning, even though in this odd dynamic he could never truly win against Mycroft. Not unless he were willing to commit suicide by Jim's hands when it was over. 

He rewarded the boy with the stroke of his hand, pressure increasing and pace quickening. He was gasping so much from Mycroft's touch and the desire for more - to be inside of him, not just pressed together, but _filling_ him - that Seb had to lean his shoulder against the hard tile floor for support. 

Mycroft's eyes rolled back under the assault. He lost track of what his hands were doing, uncertain whether he was still stroking Seb or merely gripping the man's cock and holding on for dear life. Seb's finger was brushing just the right spot, and Mycroft's ears were filled with the man's groan, his labored breathing. Seb wasn't just close; he was shaking slightly from keeping himself in check.

Mycroft should have been frightened, but the fear blossomed into desire instead. A few more strokes and the boy writhed underneath Seb, crying out softly as he climaxed.

The way his eyes screwed shut, the way his mouth fell open and his nose crinkled, it was gorgeous. Seb grit his teeth and watched Mycroft fall into that all-consuming state of bliss. As soon as he was gasping and the tingles had subsided somewhat, just collected enough to become aware of the world again, Seb grabbed his hips and slid him down on the floor. The man grabbed his own cock over Mycroft's hand so he wouldn't let go. With his other, lying side by side, he raked it through the boy's hair before he drew him forward more gently. 

"Suck me," Seb gasped. 

Mycroft turned dark eyes up towards Seb, still slightly dazed. It took a moment before the man's words sunk in and parsed correctly; Seb could see the moment they did, as one delicate eyebrow twitched upward in an unconscious reaction.

Mycroft's attention turned to the head of Seb's cock. He licked his lips, then drew his tongue over the crown. He dearly wanted to watch Seb's expression while he did this, but the angle wasn't quite right. Slowly he managed to stretch his jaw open and take a bit of the older man in. Seb's fingers were a solid presence at the back of his head.

Seb gasped and moaned, a rumble from deep within his chest much lower than Jim's. He did his best to stop his hips from stuttering forward, but it was nearly impossible. The hand on the back of Mycroft's head tightened in his hair. Seb watched as the head of his cock disappeared into Mycroft's stretched lips. The boy still had to use his hands, but he could lick the underside and suck the end. " _Fuck…_ " It was too much. Seb couldn't take his eyes off the boy and he was coming only a moment later, both hands fisted in Mycroft's hair, doing everything he could not to push the boy down. 

Mycroft was expecting this, but with his jaw stretched so wide he almost choked. He waited until Seb's twitches subsided, then carefully slid off of him and swallowed. The bitterness lingered on his tongue and Seb still was holding onto his head, although it was gentler than the death-grip he'd had when he'd come.

Mycroft wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Nervousness had resurfaced; he had no idea how well he'd done or what Seb thought of him now. The older man had climaxed, but that didn't necessarily _mean_ anything, did it?

Still, it was taking a minute for Seb to recover, and that was a good sign. He dropped to lie on the floor, one arm swinging out next to him and catching his breath before he looked down and pulled Mycroft back up to him. The boy wound up on top of him, legs spread on either side of Seb's hips, and the man still couldn't resist running his hands up their bare lengths, over the top of his arse, and up his back. Once he was better composed, Seb gave him a crooked smile. "Oh yeah… I could stand to keep you around for a while."

Mycroft smiled back in relief; the man who'd become something like a hero for him hadn't been disappointed after all. Broad hands were stroking his bare skin again, and with Seb underneath him it gave the impression of being enveloped in warmth and safety. It was the safety of having a large predator wrapped around him, treating him as kin or a treasured possession instead of prey.

"So we're ok?" he ventured. 

Seb laughed. And kept laughing. " _Yeah_ , shit, we're ok." He sighed and wrapped his arms across Mycroft's back. Seb could sense that Mycroft was still a little insecure about himself, but as far as he was concerned, as long as Mycroft was pleased with the experience, and pleased Seb in return - that was an important part - they were ok. "Don't want to kill the mood, but if we ever lose you, I sure as hell would regret it."

"You won't." Mycroft sighed in pleasure as arms encircled him. He turned his head, listening to Seb's heartbeat and the rumble of his voice deep in his chest. "I like you and Jim, a lot. As long as you both want me with you, I really don't want to leave." Mycroft was still anxious about what would happen when he started growing, even if his returned memories didn't send things awry, but Jim had told him that that wasn't the most important thing. That he'd still be wanted even once he got older. "I'm glad Jim was ok with this."

Seb snorted another laugh. "Don't ask me to tell you what goes on in that brain of his, I couldn't tell you. Far as I know, this is part of some elaborate plan to take down the Russian government or some shit like that." He sucked on his lower lip in thought, eyes tracking the boy's gaze. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't still enjoy it if it were." Seb didn't need much of a safety net it seemed, in his work or in his relationships. 

Mycroft's attention was drawn by the movement. He watched Seb's lower lip disappear, only to reappear as he spoke, slightly reddened from the pressure. Mycroft smiled. "I don't think it's the Russian government. Not right now. I'm betting it's the British, which is why he's worried about me." That, and that there was the distinct possibility that they'd be killing more people Mycroft used to know. 

Seb gave him a wry smile in return. "Yeah, you're probably right. Least he's had enough practice at it." Although, Jim was fighting a different battle now -not just one against the government, keeping them away from Mycroft, but keeping the boy's very memory from himself. That was a fight practiced by no one in the world until now. It wasn't surprising that it was fast taking up more of Jim's focus than any other pressing issue, even keeping Mycroft out of sight. 

Seb gave a little sigh. "We'd better get up, make sure Jim hasn't blown anything up yet." He sat up and lifted the boy with him. The air in the room was noticeably cooler than it had felt when they were in the heat of things, but pressed together like that, they were warm and comfortable. 

Mycroft snuck a kiss as they sat up, pressing his lips against Seb's jawline. He didn't really feel like moving, but they couldn't stay there much longer. Deserted or not, it was only a matter of time before someone came down to this level and they ran the risk of someone opening the storeroom. "Yeah, I suppose. Maybe he's found something and we can go back home."

And it was home, strangely. Home had abruptly shifted from his parents' house, to a temporary stopover with Sherlock, to being dragged along in the whirlwind that was Jim's life. His center of gravity had affixed itself to Jim, and Seb had come with that.

Fingers trailed through the back of his hair as Mycroft gathered his clothes. Seb found his shirt and zipped up his trousers, waiting for Mycroft to finish his. He watched unabashedly as the boy dressed. Had they not just done what they did, it might have been a little creepy in its intensity, as though Seb were channeling Jim's sharp focus, but as soon as Mycroft turned towards him, Seb relaxed. The corners of his mouth turned up, and they left the hall of the morgue together, sharing covert glances all the way back to Dr. Nguyen's floor.


	14. Chapter 14

At first, Jim was nowhere to be found. They had to track down the doctor to locate him, sequestered away in a lab only accessible through another lab, where they kept archived cases. 

Jim had his back to them when they entered, casting prints about a light table, comparing them and discarding them, then making notes on a pad of paper. 

"I see you two had a good time," he said without turning. 

Mycroft froze for a moment, wondering whether they weren't supposed to have done so. Jim had stipulated, after all, that he'd wanted to watch. "Y-yeah, we hung out on the roof, and ordered pizza, and then we explored down by the morgue for a bit. It was fun."

Jim didn't make any sudden, angry moves at his declaration, so Mycroft decided to risk venturing closer. The workspace was scattered with prints. Jim seemed to be methodically going through most of the archive, comparing things to Mycroft's scans. Mycroft glanced at the prints, but they were all splotchy x-ray vision to him - none of the light and dark spots _meant_ anything. "Have you found anything?"

"I believe so," Jim said, pushing away the chair so Mycroft could get a better look. He drew the boy closer with an outstretched hand, showing no signs of bitterness over what he and Sebastian had done, even though Jim obviously knew. 

On the table there were two sets of scans that were Mycroft's among several others. Jim laid his hand over one. "Structurally, your brain is intact and no different from another child's." This was good news. "However, with age, certain centers shift in regularity of activity into adulthood. Your brain is operating, fundamentally, closer to an adult's. However, if you notice these dark spots," Jim indicated them on Mycroft's scan where they did not show up on the others. "There are certain pathways that are not firing."

"What does that mean? That they're broken? Or are those the missing bits?" Which they ended up being would have a major impact on what was to come. If they were entirely nonfunctional, it was possible the slew of memories would stop at some point. 

If it was merely delayed and healing over time, it was more likely he'd return to exactly who he'd been. Another lifetime's experiences, and the personality that went with it, all written into an adult's brain and trapped in a child's body.

"They don't seem to be damaged physically, simply shut down, causing your mind to resemble the state of your twelve year old self. However, many of the pathways resembling an adult's activity centers are still active, simply blocked by one of these dark spots, which _may_ be attempting to heal themselves." Jim pointed to one that was lighter than the others. "We'll have to do multiple scans over a period of time to be certain." 

"...so we don't know much more than we did." Mycroft turned to Jim with melancholy, frustrated eyes. "We just have to wait and see. Just like before." And the changes could come at any time, or not at all. Mycroft had no way of knowing if he'd recover five memories tomorrow, or none, or everything at once. "...what... what are we going to do?" he whispered. He'd never had a problem he couldn't even attempt to strategize against.

"If these pathways are regenerating, we need to see at what rate. We'll return tomorrow for another scan and I can begin to measure the differences. You've only been like this for several days and already you've been recovering memories. In the meantime," Jim's eyes flashed darkly, "I need a test subject. If we're going to attempt to block parts of your neurological pathways, I need to know if it's going to work and if it will cause any lasting damage." 

Mycroft tilted his head in thought. "...the best thing to do would be to try it on someone who's suffered the same circumstances. Either we figure out what the compound was and use it on someone, or we get one of the other people who were affected. I remember, when I woke up, there were two doctors and two other people who... were military officials of some sort. They'll probably be guarded at this point, if their memories have started to come back too."

Jim raised an eyebrow, suddenly very interested. "Yes, that would be ideal." He swung into motion, gathering the scans and putting them in a satchel before Mycroft had a chance to say another word. "Do you recall who they were and where they are being kept, or whether they would be moved to a more secure location?" His gaze flickered to Sebastian, who was suddenly alert at the prospect of a new mission. 

Mycroft's brow creased in thought. He'd been in a state of shock, but he had an uncanny knack for absorbing information and being able to retrieve it later with perfect recollection. "...I didn't get to see all of their badges, and they didn't use full names when talking to us, and we got separated after the army staff decided to examine us. Doctor... Brown, one of the guards called her Amy. A Doctor Connels. Two Generals, McDuff and Raleigh. One of them was referred to as Tim at one point, I don't know which. " 

The boy's gaze sharpened back up as he returned to the present. "I could try to describe them in more detail. If we had pictures, I could probably tell which ones they were. None of us had any memories, so they probably sent them all home to whatever relatives or families they might have had. If their memories have started coming back, though, that might have changed. They might be under security now."

"We'll check there first. I'll be able to find photographs of their adult selves, but we won't have much time to work. If we hope to abduct them from separate locations, we'll need to do it at precisely the same time and with a major distraction," Jim took his hand and they headed for the door. Seb swung into step behind them as they walked. Once the hall was clear, Jim stopped into the server room and retrieved their flash drive, and from there until they walked through the front doors, Seb stayed between Mycroft and the cameras. 

"How would we grab them all at the same time? Do you have more people like Seb, who you trust? If we just hire people, they'll figure out afterwards that their targets know valuable information." Unless getting rid of the hired hands was _also_ part of the plan. Loose ends were messy. Every person who was an eyewitness was a risk further down the line.

The trio made it out of the building and out to the car without any complications. Mycroft kept out of sight between the two men until Seb opened the rear passenger door, then scooted into the car as quickly as he could.

They sped off, heading back to central London with the drizzle spattering their windshield like a film. The headlights from oncoming cars bathed the two men and the boy in yellow light whenever they passed. 

"I have men who are loyal to me, yes," Jim explained, "but none need to know who they are kidnapping, nor why. Depending on where we snatch them up, I should be able to come up with a suitable story to disguise the identities of our captives, and unless the British government squeals and reveals the circumstances surrounding their top secret substance just to retrieve their employees - which I am certain they will not - our little secret will be safe. For now."

 _Now_ was the operative word. Kidnapping the other personnel involved would trigger acute government interest and intensify the manhunt that already had to be going on. If the others were recovering their memories as well, Mycroft knew he'd be viewed as a security risk, a head full of classified data ripe for the taking. The government wouldn’t fail to put two and two together.

Mycroft had been mulling over Seb's words in the back of his mind, turning each over at different angles and holding them up to the light. The boy had decided that Seb had the right of it - worrying wasn't going to make a bit of a difference, and even if his old memories came back... he'd still have his current ones. He'd still be _in there_ , somewhere. And hopefully enough that he'd be able to stick to his decision.

A small smile graced the boy’s mouth. He lifted Jim's arm and tucked himself underneath.

Jim looked down at him with an inquisitive gaze, but he let Mycroft be. He liked stroking his palm against the boy's warm side, feeling the flesh and bone beneath his clothing. Mycroft was real, alive, and there. Jim eased himself back into the soft leather of the seat, drinking in the simple sensation. 

"If they find us, let them come," his lilting voice dared. "We'll burn them all."

Unlike when he lived at home, Mycroft felt safe... because Mycroft believed him. Jim was clever enough to burn them all to cinders and ash and still come out unscathed. The criminal's hand moved steadily at his side, both of them enjoying the touch and the reassurance that they were both _there_.

"...I hope you're not... y'know. Mad about things." Jim hadn't seemed angry, but one never knew. "Seb and I talked about things. I feel a lot better now."

The corner of the criminal's mouth turned up. "From the way the both of you were walking, I could tell what you did, and didn't, do. And, from the way you've been acting around one another for the past few days, I can tell why." He bent down and whispered into the boy's hair, "I'm not mad." 

It truly did seem that Jim was perfectly secure in his position between the other man and the boy. If he weren't, he should have been rightly furious. 

Seb's pale eyes, shadowed by the light, caught them both in the mirror. He didn't seem to be displeased either, even when Jim laid his head over Mycroft's and gave him a wink. 

"Good." Mycroft turned and pressed himself closer to Jim's side, mumbling as he spoke. "I... didn't think about it until afterwards. That you'd said you wanted to watch. And you were working the whole time, and I just... I didn't want to upset you." Jim claimed not to have a problem with any of it, and he didn't seem to have spikes of possessive jealousy like Mycroft had experienced, but the boy wanted to be certain. He'd figured out that he'd managed to sink his fingers into deep places in Jim’s psyche, spots where no one else was allowed.

Mycroft was so careful with Jim. It made the criminal smile and watch the curve of the boy's downcast eyes, soft lashes catching the lights as they flashed by. He seemed so contrite. 

Seb took them downtown and Mycroft became awash in the colors. The city air drifted in through a crack in the window, markedly different than the air during the day. It cooled them and made Jim's arms seem that much warmer and the boy's smallness that much more tantalizing. 

Jim had been quiet for some time before he finally responded. "I'd rather be there for the main course," he whispered into the boy's ear, tickling it with his breath. 

Mycroft's lips curved into a half-grin. He laughed and squirmed at the sensation. "You can be. I promise." Even if it was awkward. Mycroft didn't know how he'd react to having someone watch him like that. He wasn't certain he was comfortable with the idea, but the thought of it seemed to make Jim happy... 

"Promise." Mycroft turned his head and tugged Jim closer, whispering in his ear in turn. "It might be soon, though. I think Seb just got more impatient. I'm... kinda worried how that's going to work." It still didn't quite seem possible that they'd fit together.

Jim let out a tight-lipped giggle while in the mirror, Seb's eyes darted to them again. The man was obviously curious. The way they were both watching him from the back seat and whispering made it that much more of a tease. Jim's eyes flashed with glee as he held the boy close and watched Seb watching them in the mirror. "You'd be amazed what the body can accommodate." 

Finally, they pulled into a private parking ramp and after climbing several levels, Seb parked the car, killed the engine, and turned to them. "If you're just going to whisper about me behind my back, I'm gonna come back there and make you repeat it." 

Seb received a pair of grins in return - rather chilling in how closely boy and man resembled one another, the same expression painted in different colors. "Can he do that? Make us repeat it?" Mycroft asked playfully, never taking his eyes away from the bodyguard. "I'm not so sure. I think we could take him if we both teamed up." And wouldn't _that_ be fun.

Jim's eyes only sharpened, his grin only lengthened, and he looked for all the world like he had stolen a Cheshire smile. "He can come back and _try…._ " he said in a sing-song tone. 

Seb lunged. 

Jim, instead of recoiling, threw his weight into the man's path and howled with laughter as his bodyguard caught him by the throat, body half over the seats between them and second hand scrabbling for Mycroft. 

Mycroft had watched Seb's trajectory and separated from Jim. With the bodyguard wedged between the seats, one arm occupied with Jim, it was simpler than it should have been to duck around his other arm. Before Seb could rotate the limb and compensate for the awkward angle, Mycroft had climbed atop him, looping his own arms around the blond man's neck. The boy was laughing as well, a higher counterpoint to Jim's glee voiced right beside Seb's ear.

A large hand came up and grasped at the back of Mycroft's head. And ruffled his hair. A few moments later, Seb was chuckling with them. Jim was making strange faces at Sebastian, sticking out his tongue and waggling his eyebrows at Mycroft, all the while with Seb’s hand around his throat. That really got the bodyguard to crack up, until he was shaking under Mycroft's body. Finally, he let them go and slumped back down. "Next time," he warned. 

"Next time what?" Mycroft asked. He was close enough that his lips tickled the rim of Seb's ear. The bodyguard couldn't see Mycroft's face, but the fondness was clear enough in the boy's tone. "What do you think, Jim? I still think we can take him." Perhaps not outright, but Jim had turned the tables on Seb once before when the man had lost his temper. It could only be an easier battle with another set of helping hands.

"I think dearest 'Bastian shouldn't get too cocky." Jim licked his lips, then leaned up and folded his arms over the front seat to get closer to the both of them. He bent his head to the other side of Seb’s ear, short blond strands prickling at his nose as he spoke, "Might not end well for him…." 

Seb swallowed, suddenly pinned by Mycroft's breath against his ear on one side and then _Jim's_ on the other. 

Jim swung to the other side, nuzzling against the boy so that their breaths mingled and he could brush between them. "I would _so_ hate to lose him unexpectedly."

Mycroft had felt Seb's pulse speed up beneath his arms and the bob of his adam's apple as he swallowed. 

Maybe... maybe the possibilities between the three of them wouldn't be so terrible. Mycroft didn't like the idea of sharing Jim, but... with both of them circling the bodyguard, it felt more like they were splitting Seb between the them both.

"I think Seb is having ideas." Mycroft's voice was something out of a horror movie, the tone bearing just a touch too much darkness for it to be appropriate for a child. "He seemed to like it when we each had a side."

Seb breathed out a laugh, but it was shaky. "Seems I'm not the _only_ one getting ideas…" His voice trailed off when Jim nipped at the boy's mouth, encouraging him forward and just barely into Sebastian's line of sight. The criminal opened Mycroft up expertly, drawing out the boy's teeth and tongue in a mock battle of wills. Now that Seb had gotten a taste of the boy, it was questionable which one of them enticed him more. Which was, strangely, exactly what Jim had wanted. 

Jim learned people, and when he did, he learned how to press their buttons. He’d wanted Mycroft to have Seb's loyalty, and he'd found a way of manipulating Seb into compliance.

Mycroft was leaning forward so far that had to hold onto Seb tightly to avoid falling. Jim could manipulate him easily now with a touch, a look, a kiss. The boy nipped back and let his mouth be ravaged in return, acutely aware that Seb was watching.

Mycroft didn't quite know how he felt about that. It was a different sensation than being looked at by the person you were interacting with. Self-conscious doubts started to surface, even as he knew they were nonsensical. Sebastian had seen them interacting before and had just seen him stripped down and at his most vulnerable.

There was no reason to feel shame, but the emotion flared just the same.

Jim let him go when Seb pulled at Mycroft's arms, drawing him away from the dark haired man. The bodyguard twisted his neck so that he could find the young boy's mouth like Jim had just done, leaving the criminal to slink back unnoticed. While Seb began to lose himself in devouring Mycroft's tongue, Jim popped back up again. The driver's seat fell suddenly, taking Sebastian down with it with a startled grunt and Jim was just as quickly atop the other man's back, right behind Mycroft, and snatching up big hands in a pair of handcuffs. 

"You little _fucker_!" Sebastian spat, realizing only too late that Jim hadn't finished playing the game. 

Jim only laughed, wrapping an arm around Mycroft from behind and pressing his small body to his own. "Thanks for the distraction," Jim whispered, nibbling lightly at a little ear while Sebastian thrashed under them, too big to move while caught between the seats as well. 

Mycroft shivered in delight, caught halfway between embarrassment and a sharp spike of lust. There was something about the way Sebastian was caught and helpless, muscles rippling in impotent anger as he failed to dislodge the handcuffs or lever himself upright. Jim's teeth left the shell of his ear and trailed down his neck, and Mycroft suddenly couldn't get enough oxygen. "...are... are we just going to leave him like this?" That didn't seem fair, not after how the man had taken care of him the last few hours.

Jim laughed breathlessly against his ear. "We _could_ …."

"Don't even _think_ about you little fucks. I'll have you know I was top of my class and served in the First Bangalore Pioneers, am trained extensively in guerilla warfare, one of the best snipers in the world with over 400 confirmed kills, 200 with a submachine gun. You think you can leave me like this? Mark my fucking words, I will wipe the fucking floor with you. I can be anywhere, anytime, and find you when you're least expecting it. You think this is clever? Shoulda thought twice. They thought the Battle of Char Asiab was fucking _clever_. Didn't turn out so fucking well for them —" 

" _SHUT UP._ " Jim, who hadn't been able to contain his laughter through the entire rant, smacked him over the head. It wasn't a soft blow, but it did get him to shut up. 

Mycroft watched the rise and fall of Seb's body beneath him, somewhat worried that the bodyguard was going to whip his head back and try to clock him in the face. A small hand stroked over the spot where Jim had hit him. Seb's hands were still straining to get out of the cuffs; in the meantime, one had grabbed a handful of his clothing, pulling it uncomfortably taut. "Let go, Seb."

The man did. His body slumped underneath them with a huff and his muscles finally relaxed. He peered over his shoulder at Jim's smug look and Mycroft's concerned expression. 

"Hmmm, that'll do. That'll do very nicely," Jim drawled, perfectly pleased with the way the ex-soldier was willing to obey the boy. He kissed the pink skin of Mycroft's neck before sliding off Sebastian's back and swatting the boy's very pert rear. "Up, up now, both of you. Mycroft, follow me and bring him inside." 

Jim was already heading through the parking structure toward a lift that ran directly into an upscale collection of flats. 

Mycroft slid back and out of the car, then reached back inside and grabbed onto Seb's hands. The man was perfectly able to sit up and move without the use of his arms, but having leverage would make it easier. Mycroft squeezed his hands in apology. "I didn't know he was going to do that." Not that he minded terribly. His thoughts were already wandering, considering just how much more fun it would be to have the bodyguard completely restrained and helpless instead of merely handcuffed.

Sebastian merely rolled his eyes. "I'm not exactly surprised," he deadpanned, but he still let Mycroft lead him into the lift where Jim waited, watching them with a grin almost as crooked as he was. 

"That's a good look on you, Sebastian," the dark haired man teased. His hand drifted up to stroke the back of Mycroft's neck while they waited for the lift. 

Seb snorted. The doors chimed, and they spilled out into a pristine hallway, following Jim. The little criminal took them down to the end of the long corridor, drew a key from his pocket, and opened the front door to an expansive, yet sparsely furnished flat. 

Mycroft absently fingered the cold metal of the cuffs. He wasn't really guiding Seb - he didn't have anywhere close to the power needed to force the man anywhere - but the illusion of control was pleasing. 

"How many flats do you actually _own_?" The fact that Jim had multiple bolt-holes wasn't surprising, but Mycroft was curious. "And are they all this minimalistic?" Less furniture would normally make for less fuss when one had to abandon a compromised location, but Jim wasn't sparing expense. The cost of this much empty floor space was outrageous, and the tasteful furniture wasn't cheap.

Sebastian kicked the door shut behind them with a loud bang, but it didn't faze Jim. He locked it behind them and tossed the key on a low standing table in the center of the living room. "Enough. And no, the ones that have fictional persons attached to them have much more "character". But I like to keep at least one or two hideaways in any city I visit." He dropped into the sofa with a careless air, countered only by his serious gaze upon the boy, and tossed his small laptop onto the table. "Now, tell me what you can about these colleagues of yours."

Mycroft glanced around, then seated himself on a nearby chair. "I don't remember them. Not... yet, anyways. Amy Brown was a brunette, fair skin, light brown hair with darker eyes, slightly upturned nose. The other doctor, Connels, had darker skin, dark hair and eyes."

The boy leaned against the backrest. He wasn't paying attention to the room any longer. "McDuff was scrawny, blond, had blue eyes that were slightly too widely spaced and an equally wide mouth. Raleigh had auburn hair and hazel eyes, and he had... a spot, a small birthmark on the left side of his neck. I didn't get to hear them talk much, they separated us pretty quickly."

Jim's fingers flew over the keys while Mycroft spoke and Sebastian stood, glaring a hole through Jim for not bothering to take the cuffs off him. His glare was ignored in favor of the results Jim was turning up online. "Brown…Connels…McDuff…." Jim muttered, and one minute later, he finished the last stroke on the keyboard, "Raleigh." 

When he spun it to face Mycroft, four photographs of men and women who looked like they hadn't seen their childhood years in eons stared or smiled back at him. 

Mycroft's gaze sharpened as he leaned forward. He licked his lips, regarding each in turn and transposing their features onto a younger frame. "That's them. That's all of them, I'm sure of it." Age hadn't been kind to Raleigh or McDuff - or perhaps that was the stress of the job.

Mycroft was suddenly glad no one had showed him a picture of himself.

"Good." Jim's eyes lit up before he spun the computer back to himself and set to work. "If I can find their closest relatives, I should be able to have them scouted by the end of the night. If they're at a facility, we'll know by then, and I can investigate further." 

Sebastian, meanwhile, had traipsed into the kitchen to look for a means of escape. He found one. Setting his back to a decorative iron bar beside the stove, he wound the short chain around it and _twisted_. The quiet chink of metal giving under the pressure signaled his release and he swung his arms free with a sigh, stretching them out before him. However, without the key, it did mean that he would have to walk around with two suspicious looking silver bracelets.

"I probably shouldn't help this time." Mycroft's voice was regretful, but it was the truth; watching an old acquaintance die had triggered more memories. It wasn't a chance Mycroft wanted to take, no matter how interesting it might be to watch the experiment move forward. "I don't want to make it go any faster than it's already going."

Sebastian stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and scrutinizing Jim for a reaction rather than Mycroft. His employer paid him no attention, however. Jim's curious gaze fell upon Mycroft. Streams of thought were nearly visible behind his dark eyes as he considered the boy's request before he nodded slowly in agreement. 

"Understandable," Jim said before he turned back to the laptop, hands hovering over the keyboard and head cocked to the side as though considering something further internally. Finally, he snapped out of it. "I don't think I'd have had much fun with them, anyway." 

Jim hadn't seen them yet, but none of the other children were Mycroft. 

Mycroft frowned for a moment, trying to discern what was behind Jim's oddly cryptic phrasing. Pieces slid together and understanding sparked in his eyes. "...oh." And there it was; Mycroft had said that he didn't want to share, and if he wasn't participating... 

Mycroft tried to dredge up empathy, or at least empty words to offer, but Jim would have known it was a lie. Picturing the criminal with any of the others, even knowing it was meaningless pleasure, turned his blood hot and cut somewhere deep. Jim was _his_. Anyone else who tasted the man's affections without his permission would find themselves broken past all repair and drowning in anguish. 

"I'll make it up to you."

That brought a spark to Jim’s eye. He snaked an arm around Mycroft's waist and pulled the boy close. "I'll hold you to that, because you offered," he said with his lips pressed to the side of Mycroft’s cheek, "but you seem to have me so enamored that it's not an opportunity I particularly regret missing."

Seb was watching from the corner and looking quite satisfied, like something had just been confirmed in his own mind. 

"Alright, give me addresses and I'll have a team on it in ten," the bodyguard said, but he wasn't able to break the mood completely, not with Jim practically pulling Mycroft's small frame into his lap. 

Jim leaned over the boy's shoulder to spin the laptop around and slide it toward Sebastian. "There you go, now off with you." It was almost like he didn't care, until he added, "Fuck it up and I'll have your men killed on the spot." 

Mycroft relaxed as Jim's arms circled back around him. It was strange, going from a limited personal contact to an endless supply of touch, whenever he wanted. Strange, but welcome, satisfying another craving the boy had had but avoided admitting to anyone but himself. The aloof stiffness of English high society had always felt a bit lonely, one more layer of isolation.

"I'll see you later, Seb," he called as the bodyguard picked up the laptop and went to get down to business.

Jim's face was buried in the crook of his neck before the ex-colonel was even out the door. The brush of his lips tickled up and down Mycroft’s neck wherever he kissed and nipped. Either Jim was feeling possessive after the tiring day, or he was feeling possessive after Sebastian had been with the boy. No doubt there was the subtlest lingering scent on his skin from what they had done earlier. 

Scent, and a mark that had darkened on the trip back home. Jim's fingers had pulled aside the collar of his shirt and revealed both bruises nestled side by side. Mycroft tilted his head to give Jim better access. He still had a lingering sense of guilt about forgetting Jim while he'd been spending time with Seb. 

Jim's mouth trailed down over the marks and Mycroft's hands settled on his sides. His fingers stroked in encouragement. "I'm still yours."

Jim chuckled. "I know you are." 

Jim’s fingers found the hem of his shirt and snuck under it, teasing in light touches that tickled up the boy's abdomen and his sternum until they nearly popped out the collar at his neck. It was not unlike being caught in a full-bodied hug, except underneath his clothes. Jim's mouth trailed down as far as he could go, whereupon he reached Mycroft's collar and paused just to hold him. 

Even this... this was fine. It was still hungry, but in a different way than the other times had been. Perhaps Jim really was feeling worn down after the long day - the playful intensity from previous times was gone, replaced with something quieter. Mycroft grunted as he felt fingers slide down his spine. His own hands went seeking for the hem of Jim's shirt. He wanted the older man like nothing else he could remember before - to hold Jim's life in his hands and tuck him safely away like a precious plaything. Even though he couldn't. Even though hoarding him like that would kill Jim with boredom, something Mycroft understood all too well.

Once Mycroft freed the shirt from the man's waistband, small hands felt their way over Jim's skin in return. If they could have crawled under one another's skins as well as their clothes just then, they would have. Jim laid them down slowly on the sofa, side by side with his body spooned around Mycroft’s. They fit surprisingly well like that. The couch had never been broken in, and was not as soft as it could have been, but Jim's warmth wrapped all around Mycroft and the boy's small body pressed against him nearly made it the most comfortable place in the world. 

An epiphany struck Mycroft, enough to curl his mouth into a smile. After so many years of instilled paranoia, layers upon layers draped over him or self-created for his own safety, Mycroft _actually felt_ safe. Jim had insisted that Mycroft no longer be afraid of him, and he wasn't. His worries about Seb had lessened. With both men on his side, the boy felt untouchable. And more relaxed with Jim wrapped around him than he had felt when he'd been curled up in his brother's bed, hiding from shadows. The only threat he had to deal with now was himself.

It was difficult to imagine, now, that they'd met before and not ended up like this.

Jim’s warm breath ghosted over his neck. The soft press of lips and then the flutter of eyelashes followed as Jim buried his face there and squeezed tightly for a moment. If one had to say, Jim was as relaxed as Mycroft just then. 

Whatever he had been before, it was clear that Jim no longer thought of him that way. Too much had changed for the boy to resemble what the previous Mycroft had been, at least on the surface. Only the new Mycroft would be able to know if, memory willing, there had been more there all along. Jim seemed content to disregard it altogether in favor of their new circumstances. 

Mycroft stayed like that for a long moment, reluctant to break the silence and have Jim draw away. He liked feeling... needed. Wanted for _himself_ , rather than his skills or the prestige he might bring or for a desire to have the family line carry on. Jim's reactions were unusual, however, hinting at a fragility that worried Mycroft. Vulnerability seemed strange when the criminal wore it over his skin. "...are you ok, Jim?"

The man didn't move, his breathing didn't change, but the heartbeat against Mycroft's back picked up. "I will be," Jim said. It sounded as though he meant "whatever happens, I will be in the end", but it also sounded like something Jim had been used to saying before and wasn't quite so sure this time. If there was anything in the world Jim would hate, it would be having an enemy he couldn't manipulate, and whether he could manipulate Mycroft's mind remained an inconvenient mystery. Every moment they were forced to wait, at a standstill in Jim's investigation until they heard from Seb and his team, was frustrating. The very passage of time held a sick quality to it. 

Mycroft's possessiveness shifted, fixating on the man who'd become the focal point of his life. He was used to feeling this way towards Sherlock, back when Sherlock was a child, but it was odd to have protective feelings for an adult that was perfectly able of taking care of himself. Sherlock had been naive and needed help with all sorts of things, and he'd been prone towards carelessness and injury and fits of depression when bored. 

Jim was more than capable of burning anything that tried to hurt him or stand in his path. He could manipulate things and obtain whatever he wanted. There was nothing Mycroft could protect him from, but he still had the irrational impulse to _try_. 

Mycroft began to hum, absently and without any real melody in mind, just comforting sound. His arms tightened around the older man.

Jim shifted them to press his nose to the boy's, then laid his head on the fabric of the sofa. The man's eyes closed as the tune carried on, one tiny voice in the silence of the empty flat. For a while, Jim was comforted. Mycroft was there for the time being, and he wanted to stay. The small boy was the only thing that kept him from rising and stalking around the flat with needles under his skin, waiting for the call from Sebastian. For Jim Moriarty, that was saying a lot. 

Eventually, Jim's phone did go off. 

Mycroft released Jim and reached for the phone, handing it to Jim without comment. This was what they had been waiting for - an opportunity to take action, not just passively bide time and see if the worst would come to pass.

Mycroft could hear Seb's faint voice from the phone. He was tucked close enough against Jim that he could even make out most of the words. The British government had indeed discovered that the other damaged parties had begun to recover their memories, and all four of them had been removed from the custody of their families. They'd been transported to a secure compound, one with a medical focus, and put under observation.

Jim wasn't happy with the news at all. More daunting was the trend of resurfacing memories than even the prospect of having to send his men into a guarded facility which was sure to have high level security since Mycroft's disappearance. 

Jim had an advantage in surprise only, and he told Seb as much. No one knew who had taken Mycroft, although Sherlock would have certainly worked out by the footprints and scuff marks at the scene that _someone_ had. The warm body beside Mycroft extricated himself and pulled out his laptop, searching for possible locations and coordinating with Sebastian over the phone. 

Tough as it was, Mycroft tore himself away and left to find the bathroom. He needed something to occupy himself, and he couldn't help Jim with this. Or rather, helping would just complicate matters. Jim already had all the tools he needed to make a tactical decision and set Seb's men into action.

Jim's voice followed him down the hallway, echoing off the walls. It didn't take long for Mycroft to find what he was looking for. He turned on the showerhead and began to strip down. Warm water might prove to be soothing. At the very least, he needed a shower after the day's adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about halfway through, now. Sorry for the delay in chapter postings!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for animal cruelty and death.

Roughly twenty minutes later, just before Mycroft was about to get out of the shower, Jim stepped through the doorway. He lingered there at the threshold, just leaning on the frame and resting his head and shoulder against it while he watched the blurry form of the young boy. They were separated by only a frosted pane of glass, one dark figure and one creamy light one. 

Jim began shedding pieces of himself as he moved closer. Buttons flipped apart, shirt came untucked, shoes were stepped out of as he advanced on the little form on the other side, knowing Mycroft was watching. It wasn't a stretch to imagine how the boy looked on the other side, still and waiting, hair turned dark and plastered to his head beneath the spray of water, smooth skin all the more pale as it shined with droplets running down every inch of him. 

Mycroft waited. He could be patient. He couldn't see all the small details on his side of the glass, but the outline was enough for his imagination to supply the rest. Jim's shadow drew closer and the pane slid aside. Mycroft glanced up at Jim through the spray, a ghost of a smile painted across his features. Small hands reached out in invitation, the beads of water on his skin catching in the light. Mycroft knew that Jim wouldn't refuse. Perhaps even couldn't.

Jim's hands caught his wrists and the man was pulled inside. 

For a moment, he marveled at how like an angel the little boy looked. The lighting was warm and flattering on Mycroft's pale skin, but his freckles stood out clearly, give him an otherworldly air. Clear, grey eyes beneath small brows looked up at Jim through watery lashes. The man had to take Mycroft's face in his hands just to look at him for a moment. With his peculiar mind, Jim was memorizing everything about the boy. 

When he was finished, a smile touched his lips. "We'll have our new subjects by morning."

"Good." Mycroft licked his lips, both wanting and not wanting to know what Jim was going to try on them. Knowing would just make him want to help, or at least watch, and he'd already decided that wasn't in his best interest. Not if he wanted to avoid things that might trigger memory reactivation. "Are you going to use Seb to help, or have someone with medical experience brought in?"

Mycroft could handle being left to his own devices for long periods of time. He was used to it. It would just be a more painful experience with Jim away, knowing that the clock was counting down and he _wasn't_ spending as much time with him as he could.

Jim smiled. It wasn't pleasant. 

"Seb's presence alone will help their willingness to cooperate. He'll be useful in that way, at least until they get to know me better." Jim didn't make for a very imposing figure, not until he got one of his wild looks about him. "But yes, I will need to test their brain activity with the equipment at the lab, and for that I will have to smuggle them in and out. Dr. Nguyen will think I'm furthering my work with you alone."

Mycroft nodded. Left to his own devices, then. "Can you leave a laptop or something for me, so I have something to do? Since Seb is going with you and I can't go outside here." With the government and Sherlock both looking for him by now, it couldn't be risked. Especially on his own, without any backup.

Jim sighed. "Of course." He must have regretted leaving Mycroft out of the process, but he was no less determined to see it through himself. He set his hands on the boy's shoulders and turned him around under the spray of water. Jim reached around him to pour a dab of shampoo into his palm and stroke it through his ginger hair, soft and sleek under the spray. He enjoyed the simple gesture, the sensation of Mycroft, so small under his fingertips, grounding him while his mind tried to wander back to the investigation at hand. 

Mycroft let his eyes drift shut and concentrated on the feeling. He was attuned enough now that he could tell exactly how far away Jim was - he knew the length of the man's arms, could hear the change in sound as water pattered against his bare skin. Mycroft reached behind him blindly, touching Jim's hip for reassurance as the older man washed his hair.

Sherlock had been his constant shadow, once he'd been old enough to follow Mycroft around. Now Jim had taken his place, and more. Mycroft couldn't imagine doing without, now.

When the warm water washed the suds away, full lips pressed to the top of Mycroft's shoulder, chasing the stream of water. Jim ran his hands through the boy's hair once more and then wrapped his arms around Mycroft's chest, just feeling their bodies pressed together. 

It was strange that something so simple felt so good. The press of skin, soft and smooth and hard where bone jutted forward, sent signals through the pads of their fingertips, along their nerve pathways, and up to their brains that, for once, each was no longer alone. 

Mycroft covered Jim's hands with his own, just enjoying the moment. They slotted together perfectly, body and mind. 

Mycroft was beginning to understand what Jim had meant when he'd said that they were the same. It was more than simply that they had similar interests and tastes, or that they were both highly intelligent. Mycroft felt a connection with Sebastian, but it wasn't the same. Sebastian was another person; Jim could actually become an _extension_ of himself, two persons in two bodies forming a cohesive whole.

Jim rested his head against the boy's shoulder until it was finally time to turn the water off. Mycroft was going to turn into a prune if they didn't. He stepped out and took the largest towel he could find and wrapped it around the boy's shoulders, drying him off from head to toe before he found one for himself. He wrapped it around his hips when he was finished and affectionately ruffled Mycroft's drying tangle of curls. 

"You'll want to get some sleep soon," Jim said quietly, "I have a long night ahead of me."

"I guess so." Mycroft didn't even know where the bedroom was yet. Hopefully in a room without too many windows. From what Jim had said, it looked like he wasn't planning to sleep at all.

The idea of an empty room bothered him. "Is it going to be noisy, or... can you come sit in the room with me while I sleep?" he asked sheepishly.

Jim considered the request, looking at Mycroft thoughtfully. For a moment it seemed like he was weighing the boy's reasons for asking against his own internal meter, but when he came out of it, he seemed content. 

"I'll be monitoring them remotely, and will be able to communicate primarily through text," Jim nodded. "I'll leave when I need to take a call." 

It was settled then. And Jim wouldn't mind so much. After all, the very reason he was willing to go to such lengths to acquire four insignificant but heavily protected personnel would be sleeping quietly in a bed next to him. 

Mycroft looked up at Jim and smiled, pleased and relieved. And glad that Jim hadn't inquired further about his phobias. He did want Jim in the room just because he enjoyed his presence, but having someone he trusted there with him would also make it easier for Mycroft to get to sleep.

Mycroft did an odd sort of bounce, rocking back on his heels before he crashed into Jim, wrapping his arms around him with a grin. "Thank you, Jim." 

A snort of laughter ghosted over his scalp and Jim brushed his hands along Mycroft’s back before they broke apart. 

"Come on." Jim led Mycroft back through the flat to procure his laptop and phone before they found the master bedroom. It was as simple, yet tasteful, as the rest of the place - one large, raised bed in the center, a nightstand and lamp beside it, a shaded window, and an adjoining restroom. Fortunately there was also one comfortable looking armchair in the corner of the room. 

Mycroft hung his towel on the doorknob. Just looking at the bed made him feel just how tired he actually _was_. All the day's excitement and stress and travel had built up to the point where all he wanted to do was melt into an unconscious puddle beneath the covers. Mycroft peeled back the sheets to do just that. He could hear Jim setting up the power cord to his laptop in the corner. 

Mycroft settled onto the mattress and groaned. "Maybe I'll just stay here for a day."

Jim giggled softly while he opened the laptop. "By all means," he said. "When this is over, I'll join you." 

The thought of Jim Moriarty sleeping an entire day away was more than a little unusual, but the prospect of doing other things in bed without worry looming over them was more than slightly tantalizing. Jim surely thought so, if the small twist in the corner of his mouth was any indication. 

Jim found a loose pair of slacks and a cotton shirt in the closet, dressing quickly and then curling up in the armchair, legs beneath him while he set the laptop in his lap. 

Mycroft flipped over onto his side and closed his eyes. Exhaustion pulled him down swiftly, lulled as he was by the quiet clicks of keyboard and mouse that confirmed Jim was still there.

The boy was tired enough that the first few hours of sleep were dreamless, empty black spaces. The darkness gradually transitioned to the haze of pre-dawn, barely visible through the windows of the country house as Mycroft sat at the breakfast table by himself with a mug of tea. He'd stayed up all night from insomnia again, and for the moment he had all the quiet and privacy he could desire.

He'd been fighting his thoughts for the past few days, his stomach a tangle of knots. Mycroft knew it was dangerous, but he couldn't help it. The need was as natural as the need for air, to him. He'd held his breath for as long as he could stand it, but he was going to go mad if he had to wait any longer. Now was the perfect time for it, with just enough light to see and all the creatures in the woods waking up to search for breakfast, assuming that the night's predators had returned to their dens.

Mycroft deposited his empty mug in the sink and pocketed two of the kitchen knives before going to get his shoes. He'd have a couple of hours before the household would rouse itself.

In the real world, dawn was coming nearly as quickly. Jim hadn't moved from his chair more than a handful of times to relay direct orders or receive status updates. There were hours when his typing became furious, and others when he sat, still and silent, doing no more than watching his monitor. 

The boy at his side slept soundly, and Jim was taken with watching him whenever the man tore his eyes away from the scene unfolding kilometers away. 

Mycroft twitched in his sleep and it drew Jim's eye from his work. His hand hovered over the mouse pad in an aborted swipe. The boy was still again, and he remained silent, but Jim's eyes narrowed all the same. Mycroft’s eyes were wandering behind his lids and Jim could tell that he was dreaming. 

Mycroft had practiced a bit, so rigging up a few traps using only bits and pieces found in the woods had been simple, if a pain to do. Necessary, though - the less evidence left behind, the better. No bits of twine that could be traced, or stored traps that could be found in his room, only natural materials that didn't look out of place and would decompose on their own, scattered once scavengers came to pick over the remains he left behind.

It was another rabbit this time. A bit boring, but Mycroft had to admit they were less noisy than squirrels. Large, beady black eyes watched him approach, and its legs twitched in midair as it tried to escape the snare that held it suspended. Severing the tendons was the first thing he did before he removed it from the loop of bark - tell-tale scratches on his arms and hands would draw suspicion. The animal cried, but hadn't begun screaming. Yet.

Mycroft had just been about to begin when he heard a snap of a twig behind him. He whipped around, just in time to see a set of wide grey eyes. They disappeared in a patter of footsteps as Sherlock ran back towards the house, leaving Mycroft's face rapidly draining of color.

Mycroft shook himself out of his shock. The rabbit's throat was quickly slit, then tossed into the forest. Mycroft ripped off his bloodstained latex gloves and buried them as quickly as he could, grabbed his knives, and booked it towards the house. He was racing against time.

As quick as he was, Mycroft wasn't quick enough. He'd made it back into the house, but he hadn't had time to clean the dirt off of his shoes. Cleaning and replacing the knives had been his first priority, as they were the most damning evidence, and he was already kicking himself that he hadn't bought his own set to hide in his room.

His parents found him in one of the spare washrooms just as he was drying the blades off. Fear gripped him as his mother regarded him with cold disappointment, while his father's normally warm features twisted in rage. Just like when they'd figured out his other secret.

Large hands dragged him, kicking and screaming, out of the bathroom.

As Jim watched, the boy's expression changed subtly. Slowly, Mycroft curled in on himself and Jim knew then what kind of dream he was having. The regularity of his memories coming back as nightmares indicated to the man that this was most likely a new one. Quickly, he finished typing and set the laptop down before he went to the boy. 

Up close, Mycroft did appear to be distressed. Jim found himself on his knees beside the bed, hand hovering over the boy's hair, wanting at once to wake him and knowing that he should not, not if he wanted to understand how this was happening to Mycroft. 

Carefully, Jim drew back the covers from the boy's trembling form and climbed into bed with him. Practicality won out over concern in the man's mind. He would let Mycroft ride through this even if it was a particularly bad recollection. The boy was shivering in Jim's arms when he carefully pulled the small body against him, back to front. Jim was careful not to wake him as he did so. He could have left Mycroft there and simply watched, not having to worry about breaking the spell, but Jim couldn't resist. 

The beating was worse, this time. Before, he'd understood that the violence had been an expression of his parents' own fears and disappointments - society norms dictated that he was wrong, what he wanted was wrong, and that indulging and expressing what he wanted would bring shame and scandal to the family, death and disease, and all the complications that would come with the end of the English portion of the family line. Covert war and more bloodshed.

This was personal. This was family history he'd been told and warned about ever since he was old enough to understand, made to look at the few preserved personal effects in the family library and told what would happen, what _should_ happen, to anyone who risked the rest of the family that way. He'd visited the care facility tucked away in the mountains in France, seen what had happened to the few distant relatives that had been judged a security risk.

Fire burned on his arms, back, legs, even one cheek as he was backhanded. Mycroft had no idea if or when it was going to stop. Or if stopping would come right before a more permanent form of punishment. His father was yelling but his head was too full of wool to make out the words.

Eventually Mycroft retreated, shutting the core of himself away the same as he had learned to do when the pain of boredom got to be too great. He still felt the pain, but he was detached from it, floating just beyond where it could reach. 

His body decided that he'd had enough and he passed out, only to reawaken in his room with one of the family doctors. No, there was more than one - Stevenson, Mycroft recognized as one of the general practitioners. Mycroft recognized the other man from one of the family visits to the care facility.

He was strapped to his own bed. This didn't bode well.

Mycroft woke shivering, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Jim felt it the moment he did. The man's arms tightened around him and lips pressed to Mycroft's ear. "Shhh," Jim whispered. "You're alright. You're with me." Mycroft’s body was rigid with tension, but Jim was warm behind him, plastered to his back and hot breath on his neck. "You're safe."

Mycroft's hands grabbed Jim's arms. He could feel his heart pounding - there was no possible way Jim could miss it. The older man could probably _hear it_. The arms around him were both comforting and too constricting, too much like the straps that had kept him still until his parents had felt he was safe enough again. Mycroft's skin itched; he felt bruised all over, but he knew there would be nothing if he looked.

He felt less conflicted about his father's death, now.

"Shhh," Jim whispered again, breath tickling over the boy's scalp. The man shifted and pressed kisses down Mycroft's neck and shoulder. He opened his palms and brushed them along Mycroft's little chest, trying to sooth away the fear. Mycroft was aware of him, he could tell. The boy knew where he was, but something lingering from the dream was putting him on edge. "What did you dream about?"

Fear and anger roiled up in Mycroft. He wanted to hurt something, someone, but the only one here was Jim. His mouth was too dry and his words came out strained and flat. "Sherlock found me out in the woods, told my parents, and they caught me just as I was getting rid of the last bit of evidence in the house. And then my mother had my father beat the shit out of me, and they strapped me down and paid the family shrink to come see if I was treatable or I'd have to be gotten rid of." He paused to breathe. The room felt too close. "I feel like I should be black and blue right now, but I know that's impossible. Even though I can still feel it. And things around my ankles and wrists."

Jim was silent behind him for a moment. "You aren't merely remembering. You're practically _reliving_ these memories." This was news. They were so strong when they were released back into Mycroft's consciousness that the boy seemed to be forced to go through them as though they were an incredibly vivid dream. That was similar to his dreams before, Jim decided, but markedly different than the vague recollections of his past coworker, now deceased. It might have had something to do with the sheer intensity of what was recalled after having been locked beneath the black waters of the boy's mind for so long. "You placed a great amount of significance on this one, being both traumatic at the time and altering the course of your life from then on, didn't you?"

"Jim, let me go. I'm going to be sick." Mycroft waited just long enough to disentangle from the older man, then slid off the bed and ran for the bathroom. The cold tile of the room actually made everything _worse_. He made it to the porcelain bowl, but there was little left to wretch up.

Equally mortifying was the fact that Jim had followed him down the hall. Out of concern and attachment, Mycroft knew, but it was embarrassing to be displaying such weakness and emotionality in front of the older man who now darkened the doorway.

And that was new, as well, Mycroft realized. He could remember being emotional in front of Jim and Seb only yesterday, but the thought of doing so now met with resistance in some part of his mind.

Jim knelt beside him and brushed the hair from his eyes and forehead, feeling the clamminess of his skin before Mycroft's expression shuttered. It was the subtlest change, but Jim's keen eyes honed in on it. The man's head cocked slightly. His eyes bored into the side of Mycroft's head. 

"What is it?"

Tension wound tighter through Mycroft's shoulders, the ripple of muscle under the bare skin visible as his frame contracted. "...I just wish you didn't see me. Like this. And I know that it's different from yesterday. Yesterday, I wouldn't have cared. Now, I just feel horrible about it." Mycroft could even feel the way Jim's gaze sharpened as he tried to pick the thoughts from his head.

Suddenly Jim’s hands were on him, grabbing, pulling roughly until Mycroft was forcibly turned to face him. There was a keen determination set in the man's gaze. "Put that out of your head," he snarled. He sank down to the floor and pulled the boy with him, forcing him in spite of his embarrassment and anxiety until he was nearly in Jim's lap and they were eye to eye. "Don't you hide away from me. I want to see you at your weakest," Jim whispered, voice on the edge of manic, "and your strongest, but don't you dare hide."

Mycroft's grey eyes widened in fear, then grew dull as he tried to withdraw. It happened before the boy even realized what was going on, instinctual and automatic, something reflexive he'd developed as self-protection. The edge of his mouth quivered and his eyebrows drew together. Jim's hands were rough, grabbing him too tightly. "That hurts. I can't..." Jim's intensity was making it difficult to fight off what his mind wanted to do. "I'm having trouble coming back when you're like this."

Jim's hold lightened before his eyes did. He swallowed and visibly tried to recompose himself, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he was calmer. Rather than clutching, his hands stroked down the boy's upper arms, feeling the solidity of the supple skin below his fingertips. "I'm sorry," Jim said softly, and that in itself was a miracle. "I didn't expect to affect me so…" He cocked his head and his mouth twitched in what was probably an attempt at a smile, but Jim's possessive nature didn't let him release the boy. 

Mycroft nodded and just tried to breathe. His eyes closed for a few moments. When they opened again, the dull sheen was gone. He ventured a shaky, apologetic smile. "I didn't expect this either. It's... I didn't even decide to go away. I just got upset and something switched in my head, and I couldn't switch it back with you right there and upset."

Jim still didn't look soothed. Sorrow crept back into Mycroft's expression. "I'm sorry. I'm still here, I'm not going anywhere. I was just upset."

Jim closed his eyes again and nodded. Mycroft had come back, and that's what had to count. "There would have been multiple barriers you would have created in your own mind growing up. I have no doubt this is one of the less significant ones. But if you can recognize them, and if you can turn them off…." Jim trailed off. He didn't sound hopeful, per se, but the words were more optimistic than expected. 

Mycroft curled around the older man, clinging with his legs and arms, desperate to prove that they were alright. That he still wanted to be there. "I'll watch for them." The experience of shutting down hadn't exactly been pleasant from the other side, either. After all the resurfaced memories, he felt parched for affection. Mycroft didn't want to risk Jim withdrawing from him, or treating him like he was suddenly made of glass.

Jim's arms came around him and he lifted the boy off the ground. Mycroft's legs had to tighten at his hips to hold on, but Jim got him a glass of water for the taste in his mouth and carried him back to bed. The glass went on the night stand while Jim checked his phone, typing something rapidly before he set it aside. He laid the boy down and didn't hesitate to crawl in beside him. Jim laid his head on the pillow beside Mycroft and his fingers stroked lightly over the boy's skin. Jim seemed to have no intention of getting up and back to work any time soon, a total contrast from the way he had been all night. 

Mycroft had finally risked glancing down at himself. Sure enough, his skin was unmarked - aside from what Jim and Seb had left. He scooted close to Jim as soon as the man joined him. Light touches proved not to be enough. Mycroft wanted to crawl into Jim's skin and hide in there with him. He pressed in closer, clinging and trying not to think too much about the fact that _Sherlock_ had been the one to tell his parents what he'd been up to, the one who'd earned him the beating of his life and the trauma that followed.

"Please." It was all Mycroft could vocalize. Everything was sunk into a single word.

Jim's arms were strong and tight around him. The man seemed to understand what he was trying to do and so pulled him as close as he could get, leaning into the small boy and cocooning him between Jim and the mattress. They were pressed together everywhere, one of Jim's legs wrapped around and tangled with Mycroft's, his arms wrapped together around the boy's back, and the boy trying to burrow into his chest. 

Jim might have let him, if he could. Warm lips pressed to the top of his head and Jim hushed him. 

Mycroft calmed somewhat. He was in the present, not the past, and Jim obviously still wanted him. He could get through this. Even if his memories came back, he could work his way through the knots they presented. All he could do was try.

Jim was being far more understanding and gentle about things than Mycroft had expected him to be.

"Did you find anything while I was asleep?" he finally asked.

"Yes," Jim said. "We found them. They were being held at a facility in the countryside. Seb and his team raided and extracted our subjects from its premises an hour ago. Fortunately for us, he could pass his men convincingly enough as officers and get in and out before everything went to hell. They've holed up one in of my own bunkers for the time being." Jim paused. "I need to begin testing soon." Jim needed to go to them, but he was staying for Mycroft's sake. 

Which meant he needed to leave. Mycroft swallowed. He didn't want Jim to leave.

On the other hand, solitude and quiet might not be that bad for a day. He could relax and recover. After the dream he'd had, he had no interest in doing a lot of moving today. "You can go if you need to. I'll be alright for the day, so long as there's food in the cupboard and you leave me a laptop." 

"There is, and I will." But Jim didn't move right away. It took at least another thirty minutes before his grip loosened and he extracted himself from the small figure on the bed. He pulled the blankets back up around Mycroft, a poor substitute for Jim's warmth, and set his feet on the floor. After he dressed for the day, he turned to look at Mycroft. His jaw set. He picked up his phone and waved it. "If you need anything, call me. I'll answer."

"I will. Can you call me when you're coming back? So I know?" Mycroft didn't want to sleep anymore, but he was loathe to leave the comfort of the bed. Especially while Jim's body heat still lingered under the covers. He'd find something else to do when he couldn't take the stillness anymore. "I'd just feel better, knowing when I should start listening for you."

"I will." Jim nodded, smoothing his hand over his tie. He obviously didn't want to leave Mycroft alone after the resurfacing of a new memory, and definitely not with such a threat looming over him. Jim was perceptive enough to recognize that Mycroft needed his support when coming out of a memory. Without it, Jim wasn't certain what he would do. "If you remember anything else, call me. I'll see you again soon." 

Mycroft watched Jim disappear from the doorway, then listened to his soft footsteps retreat. Distantly, a key turned in the lock, and then he was left in the emptiness and quiet.

Mycroft ignored it for a while, burrowing back under the covers. He stayed until he felt like he could no longer smell Jim's skin on the sheets, then slipped out of bed. He wandered the apartment, bare skin prickling with gooseflesh from the chill, until he found their suitcases and dug out a fresh set of clothing.

The day passed slowly. Once in a while he'd receive short texts from Jim, small nothings that had little to do with whatever tests Jim had begun. He didn't mention where he was or what he was doing, nor even when he would return. All Mycroft had for comfort was the fact alone that Jim was texting him, that Jim was thinking about him and wanted to make sure that he was alright while the man was away. 

It wasn't until well past nightfall when Jim finally returned. 

Mycroft had tinkered about on the laptop, trying to occupy his mind for as long as he could. He'd dug out a pad of paper and a pen from somewhere and had worked on his maths skills, then given it up as futile. Why should he study, really, if his older self already knew so much and it would all come back eventually? The day had gone into sharp decline after that realization. Everything had just seemed pointless.

The flat was quiet when Jim entered. The laptop Mycroft had been lent was sitting on the living room table, open and humming away, screen filled with crude experimental coding, still uncompiled. Mycroft had stolen the duvet from the bedroom and was tangled in it on the floor in one corner of the room, staring up at the blank white ceiling.

The click of the shutting door was the loudest sound in the room. Jim's footfalls came next, until he had crossed directly to Mycroft, stopping and standing over him. Jim looked down at him, trying to suss out what had made him shut down and how long he had been like that. The man's coal black eyes raked over his huddled figure, scrutinizing the boy before he bent down. 

"Mycroft."

Mycroft didn't respond, even with Jim leaning over him. He appeared catatonic; even his breathing hadn't changed. Now that Jim was closer, he could see small details that hadn't been visible from across the room. Mycroft's nails looked ragged, like he'd been clawing at a hard surface. A series of bite marks trailed up one arm, small enough that they could only be his own.

Jim knelt beside him. He pressed a hand to Mycroft's cheek, pulling his head to face the man. 

Jim hadn't been expecting this, that much was clear. He worked one arm under the boy's back and the other under his legs and lifted him, blanket and all. Jim took him to the sofa, where he was set down and the man could inspect him in a better light. Jim's hands brushed over the boy's arms, catching at the bites and scratches. He held the boy's head, forcing their gazes to meet. 

"Mycroft, what happened?"

Touch was slowly rousing Mycroft out of whatever sort of spell he was in. Sentience leaked back into his eyes until he was present again. The look he gave Jim was disconcerting - painfully hungry, not frightened. Jim had to repeat his question once more before Mycroft's brain parsed it and constructed an answer. "It started to be too much. There was no point to doing anything and I got bored, and it just... hurt."

He should have called Jim. Mycroft realized that now, but at the time he hadn't been able to think of anything other than the metal shards in his head as his brain turned on itself and started ripping itself apart.

Jim tapped his finger on the side of Mycroft's temple, then traced it along his brow. Boredom. Hopelessness. He'd tuned out again, this time for a different reason, and this time he'd shut down. Jim had a suspicion that the severity of the new memories had had an effect on the boy, possibly the uncertainty of his future as well. "Will you be alright?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I'll be alright. This actually isn't new." Mycroft felt groggy from the effort of waking back up, but he didn't miss the small flicker of surprise in Jim's eyes. "I've always gotten this, every once in a while when the boredom got to be too much. It used to spook the few staff members my parents hired until they got used to it. My parents just gave me a weekly allowance for books and things and hoped that if I had the means to get what I needed to keep myself occupied, it wouldn't be a problem they'd have to deal with."

"Was this the case after they found out about your… early morning proclivities?" Jim asked, planting himself next to the boy and helping Mycroft sit up. Jim knew that with age, the boredom would become more manageable. A person like them would find ways of keeping their mind occupied only with time and with projects that were simply unavailable to children. It wasn't a miracle cure, but with time and agency, even someone like Jim had been able to work around the boredom. 

"No, that-" Mycroft found that it was difficult to remember too far past the events of the recovered memory. Things quickly became hazy and vague, then vanished completely. "I remember not even being allowed to _move_ for awhile without supervision, being tied down to beds and chairs. After that, I think they watched me more closely, but... it's hard to say when it changed for the better again. I know they eventually let me go on my own into town again, but that was later, once they thought they'd scared and treated me enough to 'get things out of my system'."

Resurfaced memories were slowly filling in the gaps, but in a confusing tangle. All of them felt the same distance away, which made it difficult for Mycroft to place them in order and know how much time had passed between each. Each memory felt like it might have happened a week or two ago.

Jim watched his changing expressions carefully. "It's getting confusing, isn't it?" he asked. He leaned back into the sofa. "I suspect that you will be able to sort it out better the more your memories start to return. Out of the five of you who were affected, Amy's memories seem to have come along the most. She reported the sensation of "being flooded with recollections, but all out of context" until she found the links between them."

"They all seem like they just happened. Like if I go to sleep, I'm not sure where I'm going to wake up, or when." It had taken him a moment that morning to figure out who was draped around him comfortingly. "I can't see too far past each piece, either. Things get too hazy, like walking outside a patch of candlelight until you can't discern anything anymore. They're just disjointed pieces."

Mycroft had returned to the present enough that his body was finally registering its complaints about muscle cramps and injured skin. His spine popped as he stretched. "How did that go, by the way? Did you figure anything out with the others?"

"I'm running the first test now," Jim sighed. "They all have blocked areas of neurological activity, like yours, but the trouble in testing effective methods of keeping those pathways shut down will be a race against time. I developed a compound overnight for use on Raleigh, but I have hours to wait before I can even begin to tell if it will have an effect on the rate of pathway regeneration. As we've already learned, your memories can be jogged based on environmental stimuli. Their rate of regeneration isn't completely consistent. The solution I'm using to block regeneration could very well be damaging. I have to make sure it's _working_ before I can use it on you."

 _Damaging_ wasn't exactly an encouraging adjective to consider, when used in conjunction with theoretical treatments for their problem. "So we won't know for a while yet."

Anything could happen in the meantime. What if Jim managed to find the right key only for Mycroft to finish recovering everything because they hadn't been quick enough? Mycroft sighed and slumped against the back of the sofa. "Are you staying for a bit, at least?"

"A bit. Two other variants of the blocking compound are set to be administered to Connels and McDuff in three hours. We'll see which works best, but I want to keep Amy as the control since she's in the lead and I can use her progress to learn what to expect from the others." Jim stretched and cracked his neck, a sign of discomfort. He was working himself ragged. The man probably hadn't taken a break or even a nap. Dark circles were forming under his bloodshot eyes. Surely he was used to working at this pace and these hours in his normal line of work, but this time the the worry was getting to him. 

Mycroft stared up at the older man, grey eyes thoughtful as he took in Jim's worn appearance. He remembered his earlier conversations with Sebastian, how Jim lost track of everything when dedicated to a project, to the point of forgetting to take care of himself.

Mycroft got to his feet, dropping the duvet and holding out his hands for Jim to take. "Come on." He remembered enough about his anatomy studies now to have a good idea of how to help, at least for the muscular discomfort. "Have you even eaten today?"

Jim gave a little snort, almost a laugh. "No, I don't believe I have." He rolled his head back, but took the boy's hands and Mycroft managed to pull him to his feet. Jim let the boy lead him through the flat, probably an odd sight for the way he followed behind Mycroft, still a head or two taller. "Are you going to make me a late dinner?" 

"Maybe." Mycroft’s mouth turned up in a coy smile. He led Jim back to the bedroom, slipping a hand over the small of his back and guiding him onto the mattress. "Something resembling food that will be edible, at minimum. First, though, I'm going to fix you up a bit. No complaining," he added. Mycroft's jaw set in a way that was probably meant to lend him an air of seriousness, but instead just gave him a slight pout. "Shirt off."

Jim raised an eyebrow, but a real smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He sat up straight, slid off his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged it off and eyed the boy's lingering gaze as he did so, which only made his smile turn into a smirk. Mycroft looked all business as he advanced on the man, and Jim waited with anticipation. 

Mycroft grabbed Jim by the shoulders once he'd finished removing his shirt, then steered him to lay down on his stomach. Pillows were stolen from the top of the bed and propped underneath the older man so he could breathe easily. Once that was accomplished, Mycroft paused to consider his plan of attack.

He swung a leg over Jim and straddled his back to have easier access to everything. A few exploratory touches confirmed that the older man's muscles were all knotted up from abuse and stress, the worst of it concentrated in the neck and shoulders. Mycroft frowned and got to work, warming up the muscles around each knot with gentler rubbing before pressing down and forcing the tissue to unwind and relax.

Mycroft reflected as he went just how touching it was that Jim was letting him do this.

After a few minutes the man even moaned softly. Mycroft's hands weren't very big, but he had enough anatomical knowledge to know where and how to press. It took a long time, but eventually Jim relaxed and loosened up under the touch. Mycroft could feel it, the way the older man was slowly melting. Eventually, even his dark eyes closed. 

"Mycroft," Jim whispered with a smile, "I had no idea you had such talents. I've never had anyone do this for me before."

Mycroft grinned in delight, though Jim couldn't see it. He was proud of having found something he could do for him, something that Jim couldn't do for himself. He set his hands on top of one another and leaned, trying to use his bodyweight to decompress Jim's spine. "I don't really remember trying this on anyone before, either. I just read about it in some of my books. It seemed safe enough to research human anatomy without... trying anything. Nobody thought much of it at the time, other than wondering if I wanted to go to medical school." 

"Mmm… well don't stop." Jim stretched under his small hands. The lean muscles in the man's back shifted, his legs parted under Mycroft's hips, and the more relaxed Jim became, so in turn was their position noticeable. Mycroft's attentions didn't wane in their enthusiasm, and the boy was the perfect size for it, really. Jim enjoyed feeling him reach and lean with his whole body whenever he wanted to press harder or higher. The way it inadvertently caused them to rub together was tantalizing. "Tell me, has anyone ever done this for you?"

"My father did when I was really little, but... that stopped when I got older." And after certain facts had gotten brought to light. "I don't remember much of it."

Mycroft shifted down, perching atop Jim's arse so he could start on the knots in his lower back. Jim's pale skin was beginning to take on a healthy pink glow with all the attention and stimulation. The boy leaned to one side to catch a glimpse of Jim's face. The older man still looked worn, but far more relaxed than he'd been. 

One eye peeked open to stare back at him. Jim was smiling where his mouth wasn't obscured by the mattress. He winked once and closed his eyes again, shifting his shoulders and burrowing down to get comfortable, ready for more. One thing was certain, the massage was thoroughly lightening Jim's mood. 

"Let me know if you want to nap for a bit. Or if you get hungry." Mycroft wasn't sure what Jim might want, or even if he had noticed that he was running on empty. Perhaps he just didn't have a normal set of receptors, or focused so much that the signals never arrived at the right destination. 

Mycroft decided to leave the older man's back for now, moving on to other locations. He scooted up and took hold of one of Jim's arms, working his way from shoulder to hand. A hissing intake of breath told him that he was still doing well - and possibly that Jim overworked his hands. He swapped sides to work on the other arm, his gaze already shifting towards his next target.

Maybe if he got Jim's legs, the man would be too boneless to move afterwards.

"Mmm," Jim sighed with the press of fingers at his spine, running down his back and pressing again into his upper thigh. "Hungry, perhaps." When Mycroft's hands, which had been kneading the muscle down the back of his leg, paused and the boy's weight shifted, one of Jim's hands snapped back to catch his wrist. 

They hung in the moment like that until Jim finally spoke again. "Not for that." He turned, their eyes caught, and suddenly Jim was moving, twisting under Mycroft's hips and flipping their positions so that the boy landed underneath him. Jim grinned down at him. "We have some time, and you give _very_ good massages. I think I might like to return the favor."

Mycroft's smile was slow, but no less fond. The wicked edge was tempered by a shadow of knowledge; he seemed a bit older, somehow. "Returning a full-body massage? I won't say no to that," he laughed. Mycroft was still sore from the timeless period he'd spent on the floor, hiding in the corridors of his own mind. 

With a hand to his shoulder, Jim turned him over so that he was lying on his front. The man let him get comfortable before he pulled Mycroft's shirt over his head and took the boy's arms, spreading them out over the bed. Jim's weight settled on the back of his thighs, not needing to sit any higher to reach every inch of Mycroft’s body. 

Warm hands found Mycroft's shoulders first. Jim did have an advantage with longer fingers and more weight to put into them. He was able to reach points in Mycroft's back quickly and easily, but it was clear he didn't have much experience with the act either. 

Even so, the boy gave a muffled moan as Jim's fingers dug in and began to work his muscles over. Jim paid attention to Mycroft's reactions, lightening up on the pressure whenever Mycroft hissed or his muscles tensed again. The youth melted underneath Jim's hands, an expression of mild disbelief writ across his face. "...would've had y'do this earlier if I knew," he mumbled.

"Hmm…" Jim pressed his mouth to Mycroft's shoulder and smiled while he worked. "Let me get something." He disappeared for a moment, and Mycroft heard the bathroom door click open. Jim was back quickly with a dark bottle in his hand. He clicked it open and poured a glob of oil in his hand, rubbing them together and warming it before he spread it over the boy's back. It was warm upon contact with his skin, capturing the warmth of Jim's hands and retaining it for a moment after they passed, thumbs sliding down his spine until they landed at the two small dimples above his arse. 

Mycroft grunted and his back arched against the pressure before he sank back against the mattress. "...alright, I'm going to have to try that stuff with you next time." The oil was more soothing than Mycroft would have thought, and Jim's hands slid across his skin easier. And slid. Mycroft turned to quirk an eyebrow at the older man as Jim tugged his trousers and pants down and cupped his arse. He'd opened his mouth to speak, but his words died on his tongue and turned into a moan as Jim began to massage _there_ as well. 

Jim grinned back at him, all flashing teeth and mischievous eyes. It seemed he had more on his mind than a simple massage. While Mycroft was still watching, he wiggled his hips back and pulled Mycroft's remaining clothing even further down, over the backs of his thighs and tangling in a pile at his knees. Jim's hands returned to their work, newly oiled and kneading over the soft mounds of flesh at Mycroft's rear. The thumbs dipped lower, pulling the boy's cheeks apart while Jim watched Mycroft's anticipation. He deviated in their path at the last moment, turning away to run down his inner thighs instead of brushing against the boy's most sensitive spot. 

"...you're a fuckin' tease, you know that?" Color had suffused Mycroft's cheeks, and he'd partially turned on his side in order to watch Jim work. The older man looked much better than he had when he'd arrived, now relaxed and cheered up enough that his appetite had returned. One of them, anyway. "I suppose you're looking for a reward for all your work in the lab today."

Jim squeezed and leaned over Mycroft's backside to reach the boy's mouth. His teeth caught Mycroft's lower lip and he tugged until the boy met him. Mycroft was more confident with his tongue this time. Jim chuckled in the back of his throat before he pulled away, eyes narrowed with desire. "What if I am?" His thumb dipped into the boy's crack, slipping and sliding easily past the supple skin and lingering there, massaging around the sensitive ring of muscle. "Do you think I deserve your indulgence?"

Mycroft's head tilted and a rakish smile touched his lips, his own gaze darkened with lust. The expression was more confident and daring than any he'd worn before. "Perhaps. You _have_ toiled away on my behalf... but I rewarded you with one massage already. I think you're taking advantage of my fondness for you, asking for another massage so soon." Despite his words, his hips tilted in response to Jim's teasing.  
Jim trailed his free hand down Mycroft's back and chuckled, pressing and massaging more eagerly with his other. "Oh, that I _definitely_ am." He pressed the boy down against the mattress again, and was met with some resistance this time as it seemed Mycroft wanted to watch, but Jim was then able to continue his massage over the boy's back with one hand while he leaned over the small figure. He pressed firmly with his finger of the other hand, slipping it past the barrier of muscle into tight heat. Jim rose and pressed a kiss to the side of Mycroft's cheek when it was all the way in. "You're in quite a precocious mood today, aren't you?" he whispered. 

Mycroft's lips parted in a gasp as he felt Jim's finger penetrate. His eyes gained a wild look as he met Jim's gaze. Mycroft wasn't sure he could explain it all with mere words. "Maybe I just know what I want." He consciously tightened his diaphragm for a moment, knowing Jim would feel the sudden increase of pressure around his finger. The suggestion must have worked, as the wicked set of Jim's mouth only deepened. "I was thinking about you today."

"I bet you were." Jim pressed his finger down, moving it in and out, adding more oil and slipping it back in again. Goosebumps were forming across the boy's creamy expanse of skin while Jim's finger sent pleasurable sensations through him. The man added another to intensify that feeling, getting Mycroft to squirm and shift his hips as Jim pressed into him. "Come to any conclusions?" he breathed against Mycroft's ear.

"Mmmm." Mycroft hummed and his eyes closed for a moment before he shot Jim a particularly feral grin. "Well, that I couldn't wait for you to get home, obviously. That I'd like for us to go work on something special, _together_ , when we get everything figured out." Jim's fingers moved at just the right angle and a shiver rippled up Mycroft's spine. "I'm still working out the rest. Some of it I can't do yet, so I'll just have to be content to let you take the lead. _For now._ " 

Mycroft had even had ideas about that, briefly, earlier that afternoon. People made a delightful and creative assortment of tools and toys. Just because _he_ wasn't big enough didn't mean he couldn't find something suitable for the purpose.

Jim pressed his weight over the boy and Mycroft could feel how he was straining against his trousers. The hardness pressed firmly against his backside, trapping Jim's hand for a minute. "For now," Jim repeated. That probably wasn't the best thing to bring up with the man, in any way, because it reminded him that Mycroft was changing rapidly, but Jim only pressed down harder with his hips in defiance. "You think so? _For now_ could be quite some time." 

Mycroft laughed; though his voice hadn't changed, it didn't sound quite the same as his usual boyish giggle. "Yeah, you're right. It'll be quite some time for _me_. Doesn't mean I can't accomplish the same ends with other means, even if it's not exactly the same." He squirmed against Jim's body, but didn't get very far - Jim was still more than a match for him physically. It was nearly effortless for the older man to pin him down. "I found a solution or two on the internet while you were gone."

"If you think you're going to shove some dildo up my arse, then you've got another thing coming," Jim hissed in his ear. He gave a deliciously cruel swipe of his fingers over the boy's prostate, and then lifted himself just enough to loosen his trousers and slide them off. The rest of Mycroft's clothing went the same way. Jim was back on him, pressing him down again when he tried to move. This time the man's hands continued the massage, over his shoulders, up his legs, down his arms, and across his back, all with Jim's cock pressing firmly against his crack. 

" _Fuck._ " The curse sounded particularly lascivious and out of place when voiced by a child. Mycroft bucked underneath Jim, trying to tease the older man into losing control. Being held down was causing sparks to go off and electrify his nerves. "You say that now, but you never know. You might like it more than you think."

Jim slid against him and Mycroft bit back a whimper. "I'd like a turn."

Finally, Jim pressed his whole body down against Mycroft's, nearly smothering him into the mattress. Sharp teeth and a hot mouth nipped at the side of his neck and Jim's hips rocked against his, rubbing the length of him through parted cheeks over and over again. The sound of the bottle being opened came again, and then the sensation of warm oil sliding between his parted legs. 

"When you can take me," Jim breathed, "then you can have me." 

The head of his cock pressed against Mycroft's opening, and _pushed_.

Mycroft gritted his teeth and clawed against the mattress as Jim slid into him. Penetration was becoming easier every time they did this, his body gradually getting accustomed to the activity and learning to expect pleasure rather than pain. His breath came in short pants as Jim finished locking them together, buried to the hilt, skin pressed against skin. Mycroft started to reach backwards to pull Jim down, missing the feel of his mouth, when Jim pinned him again.

Possessive tonight, apparently. 

It was to be expected after a day spent fighting to keep the boy Jim had come to know at his side. The man had been laser focused on nothing else, and now that he had a few hours to wait, he wanted to indulge in what he was working so desperately for. For both of them, it was better to think of it that way, rather than in terms of taking advantage of what they could while it lasted.

Jim bent down and sought the boy's mouth. Mycroft had to twist his neck, but they came together heatedly when Jim began the slow thrust of his hips. He held the boy's sides, pinning Mycroft squarely underneath him. Each thrust made Mycroft's small frame shiver. 

Mycroft kissed Jim with a tangible, desperate hunger, reaching back with one hand to cup his jaw. Jim was moving slow, too slow for what Mycroft wanted, and yet it was absolutely perfect. He wanted hard, quick thrusts that would ache for hours afterwards, keeping him company when Jim had to leave him alone again. He wanted to stretch the moment out forever, savoring one another. He wanted to turn around and latch claws into the older man's skin and never let him go, and also to be pinned down just like this, at his mercy. The myriad conflicting desires tore a frustrated sound from Mycroft's throat.

He bit at Jim's lower lip and tasted a hint of copper.

Jim’s tongue swept forward to lick at it, meeting Mycroft's and battling for the taste. Jim thrust harder suddenly, as though Mycroft had sparked the aggression within him, surfacing at the taste of his own split lip. Jim growled and caught each of the boy's wrists, holding them out over the mattress as his pace quickened, snapping his hips forward and driving the boy down, grinding into him as he went. 

Mycroft's eyes shut. The world narrowed down to pure sensation - the burn of abused flesh, the weight of Jim's body pressing him down, the sound of his voice and ragged breathing, the softness of the sheets beneath him that didn't provide the right kind of friction. Mycroft’s hands balled against the mattress as he rode through it all. 

He wasn't the least bit sorry. After a moment, when he recovered his presence of mind, Mycroft purposefully tensed, employing the same trick he'd used earlier. This time, the muscles surrounding Jim's cock suddenly tightened.

Jim moaned, the sound breaking free of his throat in a stuttering breath of air. His hips bucked, driving deep in a knee-jerk reaction to the sensation. Jim’s hand scrabbled between Mycroft's belly and the sheets, searching, taking hold of his small cock and stroking quickly. The boy was holding tight around him, and Jim was coming, long and hard and pressing all his weight into the little body below him, trying to flatten him against the bed and bury himself under Mycroft’s skin. 

Mycroft writhed, so close to the edge with the knowledge that Jim had come undone in him, _because_ of him. He gave a quiet, breathy sob and reached behind him with the hand that Jim had released, raking his nails into the man's shoulder. It wasn't quite enough yet, and Jim’s hips had gone still as he rode out his orgasm.

The man's hand squeezed around him, still pumping tightly over Mycroft's small cock, and then his teeth bit into the back of the boy's neck, holding on as Jim sank against him. He made a muffled sound, hindered by Mycroft's flesh. The tension eased out of the man as he collapsed slowly, shudders running through him with his cock still half hard inside the squirming boy. Jim didn't ease off his pace though, nor did he let Mycroft go.  
Mycroft convulsed and finally climaxed with muffled scream. Pain had blended with pleasure until they'd become nearly indistinguishable. Jim held him through the shuddering waves until his body was spent and tension bled out. 

Mycroft panted as he tried to catch his breath. His throat felt raw, and the lower half of his body was just beginning to voice its complaints. The back of his neck felt wet, but whether from saliva or blood, Mycroft couldn't tell.

Jim licked it when he let go, the sensation briefly soothing, but it was bound to be sore later. He sighed deeply and turned on his side, wrapping his arms around Mycroft and letting him breathe. The boy's heart was beating wildly in his chest. Jim pressed a hand over it, just to feel it pounding against his palm. Both were damp with cooling sweat, but the warmth of their bodies made up for the loss of heat. Jim's breath tickled against Mycroft's ear. It seemed the man had no intentions of moving.

Mycroft felt... content. He couldn't think of another word to describe this, or having experienced anything similar before. He hurt, but it was a hurt that he'd enjoy later, proof that he hadn't imagined it all when he was alone and doubt began to settle in. Jim was still wrapped around him, still _in_ him, and he didn't want to move. Mycroft wished he could keep Jim this way for another couple of hours, at least.

"How long do we have before you have to go back?"

The man sighed behind him. "Not long. An hour, maybe a little more." Still, he made no move to get up. His body was surely starving and deprived of sleep, yet he stayed there, physically attached to the boy and unwilling to let go in spite of any of it. Jim's nose brushed the back of Mycroft's sweat damp curls. He would probably ignore every physical need for as long as he could just to have this. 

Much as he wanted to stay curled together, concern knotted in Mycroft's stomach. Jim was his... and that came with a number of things. Including protecting him from his own self-neglect. 

Mycroft turned in Jim's arms. He made a small noise of discomfort as Jim's cock slid free. "Come back with me to the kitchen. You have to eat something before you go." Jim looked unconvinced and obstinate. Mycroft sighed. "Please."

Jim’s eyes closed. His will was caving to the boy bit by bit until it crumbled completely and Jim opened his eyes again. He nearly looked like Richard, the sweet, harmless persona he'd shrugged on like a costume in front of Mycroft not so very long ago, and it was the boy's request that softened him. Mycroft's soft grey eyes peering up at Jim with hopeful conviction eased him in a way that nothing else had in a very, very long time. 

"You don't even have to let go of me." Mycroft could see Jim hovering right at the edge of giving in. His mouth quirked in a smile. "Promise. I'll just feel better knowing you didn't leave starving. You'll think better if you're not running on empty. I can't guarantee you'll care for my cooking skills, though." Mycroft tugged on the older man again, encouraging him to move.

Jim rolled his eyes, but followed as Mycroft scooted to the edge of the bed. "Oh al _right_ ," Jim conceded. All that exertion had left the man even more tired than when he'd arrived home, but he dragged himself up anyway. They cleaned up with a spare sheet that Jim would surely have washed later and dressed in only the clothing that required the bare minimum of effort - namely pants, trousers, and shrugging shirts at least over their shoulders. The boy took Jim's arm and the man trailed after him to the kitchen. 

The pair of them made quite a sight. A stranger would have thought they were playing a game - Mycroft had placed Jim's hands on his shoulders with an impish smile, then begun to bustle about the kitchen, pulling Jim along behind him. Since they didn't have much time to work with, Mycroft opted for something quick and easy: a sandwich, apple, and freshly brewed tea.

Jim wasn't too tired to tease, and the ticklish breath at the back of Mycroft's neck had the boy giggling. It was a fight to get everything back to the table without spilling, but he finally managed. Mycroft detached himself from Jim and pointed towards a chair with an imperious look. "Sit."  
"Not going to sit with me?" Jim waggled his eyebrows at him before complying. He slumped into the chair, set both elbows on the table, and bit into his sandwich without taking his eyes off Mycroft. Jim ate the thing in nearly three bites. The apple went next, although he made a show of licking and sucking the juice out of it, watching in delight while Mycroft flushed. It was in no time at all that he was leaning over an empty plate, sipping at his tea. 

"Since you were so compliant, perhaps I shall." Mycroft pried the mug out of Jim's hand and set it on the table. He settled himself on the man's lap before returning his stolen drink. He smirked. "Is it always going to be so easy to get you to do what I want? Or do you just get into an obedient mood after a good lay?"

Jim snorted. "You really _are_ forward today." He took a sip of tea while Mycroft leaned back against the table, giving him that haughty look he'd newly adopted. Jim's eyes dropped, unfocused as he mused on it, before they lifted to catch Mycroft in his gaze again. This time the cogs were turning behind Jim's stare. "It's not just what we've done, is it? It's your memories, isn't it?" Memories, not necessarily sexual, but more experience gave Mycroft a foundation of confidence that hadn't been so well established before. 

The edges of Mycroft's smirk faltered. "I..." His eyebrows drew together in a frown. "...I hadn't thought much about it, honestly." His actions had the same impulsive feel that he was accustomed to when he'd gone into town - he did what he wanted, and took whatever caught his fancy. "I suppose I feel a bit different. Part of that is just knowing you weren't going to turn me down, though." Or indulge in other assorted related cruelties. There was no reason for Jim to reject him.

Jim raised a brow. "Mighty sure of yourself, are you?" He leaned forward to nuzzle Mycroft's ear. "Don't get too cocky." 

But Jim wrapped his arms closer around Mycroft and carefully sipped his tea, satisfied enough not to follow up on that threat. The boy's soft hair tickled his neck as he drank and Jim breathed in deeply, feeling a contentedness that he had not felt for a long time, apart from a few rare, quiet moments when he was completely alone and submersed in thought. 

Mycroft had every right to be cocky just then. 

Jim's admonition bypassed Mycroft completely; his smile returned and he laughed under his breath. "Your so-called 'punishment' wasn't too terrible. And it was exactly what I was trying to get you to do." His fingers caressed the back of Jim's neck. Mycroft had gained a significant measure of confidence about just how high he was on Jim's priority list. "I don't think you have as much control over me as you're pretending you do. Not if I ask just right."

Jim set the mug down on the table behind Mycroft's back and looked into the boy's gleeful eyes. Jim's own dark eyes fluttered closed and he rubbed their noses together in what might have passed for affection. "Best not to test those theories," Jim said softly, but it was unclear whether he said so because he was afraid that it was true, that Mycroft was in fact the one who had control of Jim, or whether it was because Jim was still uncertain how loyal he _could_ be, even to the boy. Jim had quite probably never tested the latter theory to its full extent.  
Mycroft looped his arms around Jim and drew him into a tighter embrace. "I doubt I'd ever ask for anything you'd truly object to." Except that he had, more or less. Mycroft wasn't quite certain how serious Jim had been. 

Still, Jim had given in to so much. He'd agreed to limit his affections. He'd allowed Mycroft to explore the boundaries of his relationship with Seb. Mycroft had been spoiled with new experiences in Egypt, and now Jim was working overtime on his behalf. Mycroft didn't know what to call that, if not evidence of attachment.

Jim's chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh under his embrace. Then the man gave a light chuckle. "You're trying to console me," He ran his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "I appreciate the sentiment, but you should know by now to never, ever take anything for granted." Though his words weren't exactly heartwarming, Jim still didn't seem disturbed. Mycroft put him in a much better mood, if not an idealistic one. As hard and as desperately as he was working, Jim was still refusing to make or believe in promises. 

"Hmmm. So I shouldn't assume anything? Not even that you'll come back for me?" Mycroft refused to be discouraged. Jim's behavioral patterns revealed things that his words did not. Even then, if Jim decided to change his mind about things... Mycroft wasn't certain he'd be so easily gotten rid of. He was missing years of expertise and didn't have Jim's connections, but the older man would have a hell of a fight if he tried to back away now. "Now you're making me reluctant to let you get back to work, if I can't take it for granted that I'll lure you back home."

Jim chuckled again at that. He didn't respond to Mycroft's more serious thoughts, but he did rest his chin on the boy's little shoulder and rock backward in his chair, flattening Mycroft's front to his. "You'll have to." Jim was going either way, but Jim was going for him. And Jim was going for himself, too. He wanted to keep Mycroft as he was, attached to Jim, but still that was evidence of how desperately the man wanted him.  
Mycroft twisted until he could whisper into Jim's ear. "You'd better come back. If I have to go out there and track you down, I'm going to be quite upset."

Mycroft would do it, too. Government searches and his brother be damned, he'd do his best to slip under the radar and find Jim if such a situation actually arose. Even knowing there wasn't a chance of it happening, an ugly jolt of anger settled somewhere inside him just imagining it. Jim would not be permitted to run.

The man must have seen it in his expression because Jim's eyes darkened slightly in return. "I believe you would, come and 'track me down'. Just like dear brother the detective," Jim's sing-song voice was coming back, " _just_ like your old self." Jim frowned a little, after he'd said that. "I need to go."

"Fine." The word was cold and crisp around the edges as it tumbled out of Mycroft's mouth, but tempered with a smile. The boy leaned in to steal one last kiss. "I'll count the minutes until you return, _mo ghraigh_. Do send me texts when you have the time."  
Jim's mouth quirked at that. "I will." 

Jim pushed his chair back and stood, Mycroft slipping from his lap until the boy's feet were planted firmly on the floor and the distance in height between them was suddenly quite vast. "And you, let me know if you remember anything else." Jim stroked his hair before he turned to collect his things. 

Mycroft expression shifted rapidly - one moment he was smirking up at Jim, and the next all trace of mirth were gone, replaced by tight, hollow worry. He watched Jim gather what he needed and walk back toward the door. There was no telling when Jim might be back next. Perhaps it would only be another day. Perhaps he'd work straight on through until collapse, and Mycroft would lose track of time in this empty, echoing space. Purgatory, waiting for the final pronouncement of fate. 

Their eyes caught when Jim came back with coat slung over one shoulder and case in hand. He saw the look on Mycroft’s face, but matched it with a stern one of his own. "I will be back." His tone was flat, having one last message to get through to Mycroft before his brain shut down and tuned into work mode. Jim could not promise the boy a time, and Mycroft had known that. Even this much was skating uncomfortably close to a promise for Jim, who could make and keep threats as easily as he could breathe, but anything else was uncharted territory.

Mycroft's grey eyes were feverish, but he nodded. It was an answer he'd have to accept for the time being. He watched Jim walk out the door and heard the bolts slide home, and then he was alone once more.


	16. Chapter 16

Jim spent days like that. At first he barely came home at all, spending nights at the lab or holed up in his hideout. He never mentioned what horrors he was putting Mycroft's peers through, only particular results, if any, and only occasionally. If it weren't for Sebastian showing up out of the blue on the second day to keep the boy company, he would have likely gone insane.

Jim became so wholly engrossed in his work that when Mycroft did see him in those few, short hours, he had begun to look less and less human. Obsession lent a quality of mania to his eyes and face that was normally more subdued. He allowed it to show through now, wild and unrestrained. His terrible sleep patterns and inconsistent food intake only worsened the effect.

Sebastian was Mycroft's only saving grace. Once he'd helped Jim set up a routine with their subjects, the man spent most of his free time back at the flat with Mycroft. He wouldn't say he was doing it for the boy, but there was little other reason.

By the end of the week, however, Jim began returning more regularly. A note of optimism was evident in his stride.

Mycroft had taken advantage of Sebastian's company, whenever he was there in between the errands Jim was having him run. True to the man's promise, he'd snuck Mycroft out to a sheltered location in the countryside to spend the day learning to shoot a few different types of firearms. Several of the weapons had proven too heavy for the boy's small frame, or with too great of a kickback, but after hours of tutoring Mycroft had passable skill with a handgun and one of the smaller rifles.

Seb's look of approval upon inspecting the targets of his last few rounds was burned into the boy's memory. It still made his toes curl in pleasure to remember it, and the way Seb's hand had tousled his hair. He hadn't even minded the chores that came afterwards, methodically cleaning all the guns, then cleaning powder and oil off of themselves.

Yes, Sebastian had been pleased. Frustrated, as well; one more restrained encounter had left the bodyguard impatient for more, but neither he nor Mycroft dared take things further without Jim being present. Seb accepted this, but Mycroft occasionally caught the man eyeing him hungrily.

Whether Jim knew of their dalliances was indeterminate. In his feverish investigation, he may very well have been oblivious, or, he may simply have noted it, deemed it to be irrelevant, and tossed out with all the other extraneous information that filtered into his consciousness on a daily basis. Whatever the case, he had not said a word about it to either the boy or the bodyguard, and it did not affect his spirits.

As a matter of fact his mood only seemed to steadily improve, until one day he came bursting through the front door with a wild grin and a maniacal presence that could be felt throughout the flat. "Mycroft!" he called down the hall, slamming the door behind him with his foot.

The boy was startled out of his reading. He put down the laptop he'd borrowed and rolled off the sofa to his feet, heading in the direction of Jim's voice.

Truthfully, even though he could understand how easy it was to sink into work and obsessions, Mycroft had been a bit afraid of Jim these past few days. Of him, and for him. He'd begun to resemble the nightmarish creature that Mycroft remembered from those first few hours of their acquaintance. He didn't know what to do with Jim in this state.

"I'm here!" he called back. He could have spared himself the effort, as no sooner had the words left his mouth than Jim rounded the corner.

The breath was nearly knocked out of him when Jim swept him up with an arm around his waist, swinging him into the air too fast and spinning too quickly with a man who was barely stable enough to keep his own feet. They toppled onto the sofa, carried by the momentum, but Jim scrabbled to pin Mycroft under him when they landed. He crawled up the boy's body and held down his arms. His eyes were bloodshot and permanently wide, but he was grinning like mad.

"It's _working_ ," Jim hissed. "No new memories. Not a _one!_ In _three days_ the cellular regeneration in Raleigh and McDuff has slowed to a _standstill_." Jim's eyes darted around Mycroft's face, picking apart every micro expression the boy was giving him, possibly even trying to map out his brain, overlaying the scans he had taken days ago and mentally juxtaposing them over Mycroft's skull, envisioning exactly where he would like to stick his scalpel.

Good as the news was, a chill raced up Mycroft's spine. Jim wasn't supposed to look at him like that, not like he was an experiment on a slab. Jim had worn himself ragged, and Mycroft was having a hard time discerning whether he was more concerned for his lover or for his own safety.

"Neither have I, though," Mycroft pointed out quietly. He hoped his words weren't going to provoke a violent reaction. "Nothing, not while I'm awake or asleep. Maybe it's just stopped in all of us. It might all have just been a short-term effect."

Jim raised his head back, but he still smiled down at Mycroft. It should have been affectionate, especially when he ran his hand down the boy's cheek, but it was too sweet, almost sickly so. "I'm going to do another scan on you. We'll compare the growth of your pathways to those of my subjects. Afterward, we'll be certain."

And Jim did seem fairly certain. If the decline was a fluke, then it was clear he thought it an improbable one, perhaps based on the rate memory reactivation they all had been experiencing until the past several days.

Mycroft nodded reluctantly. He was willing to submit to another scan. Letting Jim carve into him or feed him an experimental substance after a rushed partial testing... not so much. "But not tonight. We have time. You need to get some food and rest. You're starting to look like something out of my favorite movies," he teased lightly, but it was true. If Jim started snapping at him with his current appearance, Mycroft would have started running. "One night of recovery isn't going to ruin things."

Jim clutched tighter. His smile only widened, baring small teeth that looked entirely too sharp to be found in the face of a normal man. " _Rest and recovery?_ " he squeaked. "How can you think of rest at a time like this? No, no, no…" he began squirming on his elbows, trying to climb to his knees, hold onto the boy, and navigate the sofa at the same time, like he were afraid Mycroft would bolt should he let go, which might not have been entirely unjustified. "You need to help me tonight, just a simple test really, even though we have to _**wait four fucking hours for Brown’s hippocampus to sort through her latest injection**_ ," Jim exploded. The change was nearly spontaneous, but he went back to docile in the next breath, leaning down to stroke Mycroft's hair and simply enjoy the feel of the boy's small chest against his, thinking about how it could all be over so very, very soon.

Inconveniently, it was at that moment that Sebastian walked into the room.

Mycroft had gone very, very still, treating Jim as if he was a venomous serpent poised to strike if he so much as twitched wrong. Perhaps he was. Mycroft had heard Sebastian enter, but it took a supreme effort to tear his eyes away from the grinning creature above him. When he finally managed to spare the bodyguard a glance, his grey eyes were full of fear.

"Alright, Jim." Mycroft endeavored to keep his voice as soft and soothing as possible. "There's no need to get upset about it. If you need me to help tonight, then I will."

Jim rolled his eyes just as Sebastian was edging closer. "Not upset at _you_ , doll," he crooned. Jim seemed like he was caught in a tug of war between three distinct mindsets at once, affectionate, frustrated, and manically impatient to get back to work. As uncomfortable as it was that Sebastian had walked in on them when Jim had the boy held down in such a restricted position and looked ready to either experiment on him or devour him, the large bodyguard advancing slowly behind Jim's back was possibly Mycroft's only hope of being released.

Seb crouched and reached out.

"Touch me and lose a finger," Jim hissed.

"Jim." It wasn't difficult to get the man's attention, fixated as he was. "Let me up, please. I'm not going anywhere. You're hurting my wrists, though, and I'd like to sit up. Please." All Mycroft could do was hope that polite entreaties would have some amount of leverage and reach Jim through his mania. Admitting he was frightened didn't seem optimal; if Jim was like Mycroft, fear would just intrigue him more. "Seb isn't going to take me away either. He's been taking care of me for you while you were working, remember?"

Jim let out a small cry of frustration, as though none of them could appreciate the gravity of this moment the way he could, but he sat up nevertheless and allowed Mycroft some freedom. His legs were still caught under Jim, but he could move. The man rolled his head to stare up at Sebastian. "Come to hear the good news?" he asked sweetly, "Or just to rescue your little friend?"

"I think you better back off, boss." Sebastian knew better than to suggest Jim get some sleep, or try to eat something. As dangerous as what he'd just said had been, he knew from experience that an indirect statement would have set Jim off in a flash. Nevertheless, Jim snarled.

Mycroft massaged his wrists. The stark white imprints left by Jim's hands had begun to turn red. Glad as the boy was to have Jim's attention shift off of him, the anger writ across Jim's features provoked another worry. Mycroft wasn't quite certain how far his own safety boundaries extended, but they were more solid than anything Seb had. Mycroft had gotten increasingly attached to the bodyguard in the last few days and did not savor the idea of losing him to a moment of madness. "Jim, Seb is fine. He's just worried about me."

He risked his own fingers, reaching up to stroke Jim's cheek in an attempt at distraction.

Jim rolled his eyes again and his whole head rolled with them, rubbing into Mycroft's touch. He sighed heavily through his nose. "Oh dear… don't worry your pretty little head about Sebastian. I'm not going to hurt him." Jim paused, thought about that. "Not much. And not until he really pisses me off."

Behind them, the bodyguard sighed. "Come on Jim, let's get you something to eat." He sounded a lot calmer than he must have been. After all, Mycroft had seen the steady determination on his face as he'd been sneaking up on his boss. "You've got time to kill anyway."

Jim rolled his head one more time, nearly drunk on exhaustion, and climbed off the boy.

Mycroft's expression changed minutely - he couldn't quite mask a small twinge of relief, nor the subtle trembling in his frame. He didn't enjoy the sensation of being prey without knowing how the situation was going to end. His small chest rose and fell rapidly as he stopped holding his breath and began sucking down oxygen.

Mycroft slid to his feet as soon as he thought his legs would hold, then stepped closer to Seb, putting some space between Jim and himself. Ironic, that he now felt more secure with Sebastian than he did with Jim.

The blond, sensing this, put a hand on Mycroft's back while Jim sauntered by and headed off to the kitchen. They shared a glance between them, this not being the first time Seb had taken an unusually caring approach toward the boy when Jim wasn't putting forth the effort. At least it was acknowledged that both were wary of Jim's plans, whatever they turned out to be.

" _Soooo_ ," Jim sang out from the kitchen, "What's for dinner?"

"I don't know. There's not much left in the house right now." Mycroft had the appetite of a growing child and had been whittling away at the flat's small amount of stored food for the past few days. Jim was in no state to go out to eat, even if it _had_ been safe for Mycroft to walk around outside, and there was no way the boy was going to agree to send Seb out to get something. Not if it meant the bodyguard would be leaving him alone in the flat with Jim. "We could have pizza delivered. Or Chinese."

"Chinese," Sebastian said before either could say any more. He must have been thinking Jim needed real food.

Jim leaned heavily on the table and rolled his head in assent. He watched with beady, calculating eyes while Seb got on the phone and ordered for them, but a hint of a smile played around his mouth. "Have you been keeping Mycroft busy?" Jim asked with an inquisitive upturn at the end while Seb was halfway through the phone order, just having taken Mycroft's request. Jim flashed his widening smile playfully at Mycroft, and it seemed he was finally going to address the issue of them being together because Jim hopped off his stool and slunk up to Sebastian. He ran a hand up the man's chest, who was trying to finish the call as quickly as he could.

Mycroft's chest constricted. He wasn't certain what was greater - his fear that Jim was going to hurt the blond, or the spike of angry jealousy that filled him when he watched Jim's hands wander. It didn't even help that he knew Jim was doing it to get a rise out of the both of him. "He's been taking me out shooting. Nothing too fancy, but I'm able to shoot pretty well with the smaller rifles and semi-automatic pistols. And I learned cleaning and maintenance. Seb told me he'd help me pick out some models to start my own collection."

Jim rolled his crooked grin to Mycroft, not missing the pointed defense, especially when it concerned his improving skill with firearms, as well as his omission of anything else that had happened between the two of them.

Finally, Seb ended the call and looked down at Jim with a haughty air. "Yeah, we've been keeping busy," he said, facing Jim's speculations without so many words, but by the tone of his voice unabashedly admitting to them.

Jim didn't seem upset though. He only grinned wider and ran his hand farther up Sebastian's neck, thumb trailing along his jaw.

Mycroft didn't have the rigid control over himself that his older personality had had. The boy's weak pretense at calm vanished, leaving something raw and angry in its place. He was next to the two men before he'd even realized his feet were moving. "Plenty busy and entertained. I don't recall you voicing any complaints about that before, but I _do_ remember something else. Something about agreeing over when it's permissible to _share_." Mycroft's voice came out in an ugly hiss, completely at odds with his angelic frame. His arms twined around Seb's waist and he glared up at Jim in challenge.

Seb stiffened at the boy's embrace combined with Jim's touch and both of their attentions indirectly focused on him. He must have suspected something like this, when Jim allowed Mycroft's little crush, even encouraged it at times, and only showed affection to Sebastian when he wanted to rile the boy. It seemed Jim was in one of those moods now.

"Oh, I haven't forgotten," Jim's lashes fluttered and he lowered himself, crouching to Mycroft's height and regarding the boy more innocently, "but I've had such a long week, working so hard for you…"

Maybe Jim wasn't trying to rile Mycroft. Perhaps his intent was to rile _Sebastian_. The boy's insecure streak just made it difficult.

Mycroft's fingers dug into Sebastian like claws. "He's _mine_ ," he hissed. "And _you're_ mine, and I don't want to share." Mycroft’s controlling streak was overriding his sense of safety and tact. "You can watch, or you can interact with me, and I'm not keen on the latter right now. Not after you pinned me to the couch."

That set Jim off, faster than anyone had been expecting, even Sebastian who had seen it coming as soon as the words left Mycroft's mouth. Jim lunged for the boy, already crouched at the perfect angle to do so, and they were on the floor faster than even Sebastian had time to counter. Jim was snarling, pinning Mycroft under him. "Didn't I warn you about getting cocky?" he hissed, furious at having his authority challenged so blatantly. "I said you could play, but don't you think for one _second_ that you control what is mine. And you, and _Sebastian_ , and _everything you come into contact with here is mine_."

"Jim, _stop_." Sebastian’s arms were around Jim in seconds, prying him off Mycroft and nearly lifting him off the ground. For as neutral as Seb appeared to be, there was the slight note of uncertainty in his voice.

Mycroft still looked the same, but he wasn't the frightened 12-year-old that Jim had originally brought home. His features twisted into an angry mirror of Jim's own as soon as he hit the floor. He kicked at the older man, hands curled into fists. "I'm _not_ your plaything. You don't own me. I'm here until I want to be. Go on, keep fucking it up by pulling shit like this. You won't have to worry about my memories then, _James_. You'll drive me away before that little nightmare comes true," he spat. "Or are you going to kill me because I'm not some perfect, obedient clone of you? I won't make _that_ easy. And if you succeed, that will be even worse for you, won't it? Remembering what you destroyed, dealing with being alone all over again."

Jim suddenly went very still. "Sebastian, get off me."

The bodyguard felt the change in Jim and let him go. He was serious now, posture rigid and ferocity cooled to boil just beneath the surface of his skin. Jim straightened his jacket and brushed his sleeves, eyes fixed on the furious boy. He approached Mycroft again and the air between them sparked with electricity. Sebastian tensed behind them, teeth clenched and fists balled, wanting nothing more than to stop this, but Mycroft had taken it personally and Jim was now dangerously on edge.

Jim crouched before Mycroft, barely at arm's length but daring the boy to come at him with the casual position. His eyes were hard and his expression was mildly pleasant, but plastered on. "You will not speak to me like that again, Mycroft. You may play with my things, even when I am not interested, but they are not yours." Sebastian's expression tightened at that. "You have free reign here, but do not forget for one second who I am."

Mycroft stared back at Jim, looking like he wanted nothing more than to strike him down. Abruptly the fire in his eyes was swallowed up and extinguished, leaving a cold emptiness behind. The boy's face turned into an emotionless, impassive mask.

He didn't bother to reply to Jim's statements. Mycroft's flat, shuttered look flickered to Sebastian for a moment, back to Jim, and then the boy turned on his heels without a word and began to walk away.

Jim waited, seething at his back and growing more and more tense as Mycroft left. A hundred thoughts must have passed through his mind watching him go. He was ready to force the boy back to his lab, fearful that the memories of his old life he'd already gained had made him resent and distrust Jim. Or he could have forced Mycroft to stay. If he'd ordered Sebastian to bring him back and pin him down and tie him to the kitchen stool, the man would have done it no matter how much he liked Mycroft. Had it been anyone else, Jim would have done either, but instead he stood in fury, letting the boy go.

As soon as he'd left the room, Jim spun, turned his eyes on Sebastian, and backhanded the man across the face.

Mycroft returned to the bedroom and stood numbly, considering his options. He'd heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh in the room behind him as he'd left. At the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care about what might be happening - for all he knew, Jim would be following shortly to attempt to murder him. Somehow it just didn't seem to matter.

His clothing was here, tucked away in drawers and the small closet, right next to Jim's clothes. They were in London. It would be simplicity itself to leave and disappear into the city, or get picked up by the authorities and put under protection.

It would mean abandoning both men, however, and all the possibilities they brought.

A howl of rage echoed down the hall followed by heavy footfalls, and then Jim was bursting through the door, slamming it into the wall behind him as he went. He didn't stop. He came right for Mycroft, snatching the boy up and ignoring swinging hands and feet and his sharp nails. Jim could only counter it by wrapping his arms more tightly around the boy. He dragged him to the bed and threw them both down on it, never letting go and fighting to wrap his legs around Mycroft's kicking ones as soon as they were down.

Mycroft quickly found himself overpowered and immobilized. The two of them made a study of opposites at the moment, both physically and in temperament - where Jim was full of emotion, Mycroft was painfully blank and cold, shutting down further once Jim had him trapped. He looked right through the older man. Even his breathing had slowed. "...did you kill Sebastian?"

"No, I didn't kill Sebastian." Jim's breath was hot against Mycroft's face. His arms were like a vice. His heart beat rapidly against the boy's chest. He nuzzled into the crook of Mycroft's neck, squeezing even tighter. "Do you not realize, Mycroft, how much I need you? Need you to be mine?" It hadn't been the dalliances with Seb that had set Jim off. It had been Mycroft himself that had, his challenge of Jim's power, his suggestion of having authority over Jim, even if, on some level, it was true.

"I know that you want that. You're going about it the wrong way." Mycroft's breathing was becoming more rapid, not from emotion, but from necessity; Jim's tight hold was restricting how far his lungs could expand. "I'm not Sebastian. Or your clothing, or computers, or one more stylish piece of furniture to put in one of your flats. You cannot expect me to be you, be exactly like you, and also be subordinate to you. I've had enough of that. I'll stay if I want to. If you want me here, you need to not drive me away."

Jim's eyes darkened. "If you left, I'd hunt you to the ends of the earth," he whispered, and it was as good a threat as any. "You can't escape me. It's far, _far_ too late." Jim was mad. It was quite possible that he was incapable of giving Mycroft this amount of control the boy so desperately was beginning to need. It was the very same kind of control that Jim needed, and needed to keep. His voice dropped to something so soft the boy could barely here it. "I will never…ever…let you go."

"You won't be able to hold on to me if we're not equal. You'll come after me, perhaps even catch me, but I'll be somewhere you can't reach even so." Or maybe Jim would simply destroy him in the chase. "You can't just decide you want me without giving me what I need. You'll kill me that way."

"And what do you _need_?" Jim hissed. "You think you need to have me? You want me to be _yours?_ You want me under your control as much as I would have you under mine?" He was bristling. The strange thing was that, without words, Jim had offered up bits of these things to the boy before. Small bits, but it was an indication that Mycroft did have some kind of hook in Jim, whether the man could acknowledge it or not.

Mycroft turned his head with difficulty, dislodging Jim from the crook of his neck. His grey eyes focused on Jim finally, rather than staring past him. "...is that what this is about? You think I want to make you subordinate?" A ghost of a smile curled the edges of his mouth, but his gaze remained flat as ever. "I think we both know that wouldn't happen. You couldn't survive like that either. I just don't like... seeing you with anyone else. Even thinking about it. I'd rip their hearts out."

Unless it was Sebastian. Mycroft would be upset, but he liked the bodyguard too much.

Jim was silent, but his grip loosened infinitesimally. His piercing gaze considered Mycroft. "…is that all?" he asked because yes, that had set him off. Finally, Jim's gaze softened. The man really did need to sort out how his interactions with Sebastian would affect Mycroft. Because of the bodyguard's infatuation with him, Jim had always found it far too easy to use Seb’s own feelings against the man. Jim gave a small sigh. "Sooner or later, one of us may wind up accidentally murdering Sebastian." He shifted, really loosening his grip this time. "But yes, you understand how I am, then…"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't murder him. I'm quite fond of him now." Mycroft's breathing eased as Jim's death grip let up, but his emotions didn't return. "But you understand. You'd drown if I controlled you and held you down. I'd do the same if you tried that with me."

Mycroft stared at Jim for a moment, then sighed. Even hiding behind the icy facade he'd constructed to protect himself, Jim's expression was tugging at him. Mycroft’s hand drifted to Jim's sides in a light embrace. "I'm not leaving. You just made me angry."

Jim sighed. "Alright."

This would be difficult for them - Jim because he was so entrenched in maintaining an iron grip of control over everyone and everything around him by whatever means he could, using outward dominance, skillful manipulation, and even complete facades, and Mycroft simply because he was so like Jim in nature and had needed that kind of control later in life to survive.

Jim drew himself around Mycroft and stroked the boy's soft hair. He was quiet, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but he was calm. Exhaustion kept him down, but he remained awake.

Mycroft let Jim hold him for a few minutes before he tugged on the older man's clothing. "We'll work it out. Let's go back to the kitchen. The food should be here soon, and we'll both feel better after we've eaten." Mycroft suspected that Jim's behavior would improve after he had a chance to sleep and recover as well, but he doubted Jim would agree to even a short nap right then.

Mycroft disentangled them, then took Jim by the hand and helped pull him upright. Their fingers stayed laced together as he led the older man back through the flat.

It turned out that their food had already come. Sebastian was waiting for them at the kitchen counter with an array of rice, noodles, beef, and chicken and looking like he half expected only one of them to come back.

"I see you've resolved your differences then," the man grunted as he opened a steaming container.

Jim just flashed his teeth, too tired and disinterested to make any more effort to respond.

Mycroft's caretaker instincts took over. He steered Jim to a seat and grabbed a plate for him, then filled it with an assortment from the waxed paper tubs. A full platter got deposited in front of Jim, along with a fork, before Mycroft started dishing up food for himself.

"We had a misunderstanding. I think we've started to figure it out." Mycroft sat down between the two men.

Seb looked from Jim, picking at his food, to Mycroft calmly sitting next to the man and with his own plate. His boss didn't seem angry anymore, just tired. "Okay then." And that was all Seb needed before he turned his eyes down to his noodles and dug in. The man had an uncanny ability to roll with the punches, even when he bore the evidence of one on his left brow.

Jim ate slowly and quietly, but he ate, if only for Mycroft's sake.

Mycroft was checking. He watched the food levels on Jim's plate like the man was his younger brother, not an adult over two decades older than him. His icy demeanor was slowly melting as they ate together.

Sebastian wasn't exempted from Mycroft's concern, even if most of it was focused on Jim at the moment. His gaze caught on Seb's bruised face every now and again, hunger and jealousy and concern rolled into one. Mycroft didn't own Jim, but he felt like he owned the blond man now.

Even if Jim didn't want Seb sexually, he'd made it clear that he still thought of the sniper as his. If Mycroft wanted to make it official, he'd either have to take Sebastian outright, or work his way under the man's skin until he gained more of his loyalty than even Jim possessed. Or they would have to learn to share.

Seb, meanwhile, caught the boy looking. Recognizing the gaze of another master, he huffed uncomfortably and shoveled more chicken into his mouth.

Seb's discomfort piqued Mycroft's interest. He inhaled sharply, as if he scented blood in the air. The boy was acutely attuned to fear, and anxiety was just another variant of the same. None of them quite knew where the balance of power was centered, Seb least of all.

A slow smile tugged at Mycroft's lips. He stabbed into the chicken on his plate with more force than was necessary. The gears in his mind were already turning.

Jim's eyes drifted up, wandering between Mycroft’s plate and the gunman. He could sense the subtle change, and a slow smile spread across his face.

Seb did not like to be owned. He was very, _very_ good at what he did when he was, but Seb preferred to be in charge. He'd had to get used to it with Jim. Jim had accepted nothing less and made it impossible for Seb to give anything less in body and in spirit.

Mycroft, on the other hand, had stepped in after the work Jim had done, and begun worming his way into the gunman's affections. It was very possible that Seb would make another exception to his general need for dominance with Mycroft, as he had with Jim.

Mycroft's gaze flicked to Jim for a moment, taking in the older man's smile and engaging in a silent exchange. Satisfied that Jim was alright for the moment with whatever proceeded, he licked the sauce off of his fork and set it down. Mycroft got to his feet with a murmured excuse about the restroom and disappeared for a few moments.

When he returned to the table, something was off. There were creases to the boy's clothing that were different than before, but nothing that should have prompted Seb's survival instincts to pay closer attention. Mycroft said nothing, simply kept his cryptic smile.

Jim's attention lingered on him for a moment, but he went back to his meal soon after. He finished the noodles and pushed the plate away, stretching and yawning in a showy manner. "Mmm, I think I might have a quick lie down after all."

Seb looked up suspiciously, glancing between the man and boy. He raised a brow. "Really."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose in concern, but he nodded and wordlessly took Jim's plate under the pretense of cleaning up. The remaining scraps were unceremoniously binned while Jim kept the majority of Seb's attention on him.

Mycroft was quick and silent. Cuffs were produced and snapped around Seb's wrists before he'd realized the boy had snuck up behind him. Mycroft barely avoided the bodyguard's retaliatory defensive strike with an elbow. He kicked at Seb's stool in an attempt to knock Seb to the floor.

It went down, but Seb didn't. He was on his feet in no time, twisting at the cuffs on his arms. "What the fuck?" He whirled on Mycroft, now towering over the boy since his plan to take him down didn't work. Sebastian raised both brows in an expression of mock patience and advanced on Mycroft, thinking he'd won. "You want to get these off me?"

He'd forgotten about Jim though, not realizing that the criminal had read something in Mycroft's intent and would side with the boy, and therefore was very surprised when he was suddenly tripped up with a loop of cord on the floor catching his foot and pulling it out from underneath him.

Mycroft grinned. There was something to be said for having a partner. Not only was it easier, it added an unexpected element of fun. "I'll take them off when I'm done. Or is that when _we're_ done?" he asked Jim.

The smaller man had secured Sebastian's feet, but Seb’s hands were still less restrained than Mycroft would have liked. A blade appeared in the boy’s hand and drifted closer to Seb's neck. "Stop squirming."

Seb stopped. He sighed in frustration through his nose and glared at Mycroft. "Alright, really, what the fuck are you doing?" He wasn't sure whether he should be worried about the knife or not. Mycroft had never pulled anything like that on Seb before. He'd always treated the man with respect before. But while it was likely just a ploy to get him to cooperate with the game, Sebastian was also very aware of what Mycroft liked to do with those knives. He also seemed…more sure of himself lately, enough even to challenge Jim. Jim, who'd made a very good knot with the power cord around his legs and did not seem at all concerned for his bodyguard's safety, sitting atop the man's legs and smiling down at him.

"Ssssh." Mycroft had seen enough to know where Seb's thoughts were going. "You'll be fine. You just looked so uneasy, it was too tempting to have a little fun." Even Seb's glare wasn't dampening Mycroft's enthusiasm. He leaned in closer, tensed in case Seb tried to clock him with his forehead.

"I like you too much to _really_ hurt you. You should have already figured that out by now." Mycroft’s eyes were different, too sharp to match up with the shy personality Seb was familiar with. "You're going to enjoy this. I'd just rather not have you trying to take control when I don't want you to."

Seb glowered.

Down by his feet, Jim snickered. "Oh, 'Bastian's _interested_. I can see it."

Seb shot a glare at Jim and sat up on one elbow, wrists out together in front of him. He could have grabbed the boy, though he would have had to contend with the knife if Mycroft had really planned to use it. Knowing that he wouldn't was all the more reason to take advantage of the child being so close, but Seb didn't, and perhaps that's exactly what Jim meant with his mockery.

Blue eyes turned back to the boy. "What exactly do you think you're gonna do to me?"

Mycroft smirked, then flipped the knife and began slicing through Seb's clothing. He chuckled as Seb's frame jerked in an aborted response. Mycroft knew he was playing with fire - nothing was _really_ keeping Seb from fighting him if he wanted to.

"Do I have to tell you right now?" Mycroft’s tone was sing-song and teasing. He pulled on Seb's shirt with his free hand and the garment came away in tatters.

It was so strange that for a moment, he nearly sounded like Jim. With the criminal perched behind Mycroft’s shoulder in the background, looking on in silent approval, Sebastian found it increasingly hard to differentiate between them. " _Jesus_ Jim, what are you teaching him?"

The Irishman gave an innocent smirk. "I had nothing to do with it."

Mycroft was in Seb's space again, demanding attention back on him, but the man leaned forward and snapped his teeth, finally starting to play along in the game of aggression.

Mycroft laughed in delight and scooted back out of reach. "Not right now, àilleagan. If you play nice, perhaps I'll let you leave a mark again." His knife drifted lower, down to Seb's waistband. "I do hope you hold still for this. I'd rather not permanently damage some of your best features."

Seb tipped his head back against the cupboard with a loud thunk. "Christ, kid…." He breathed out as the blade ripped through the fabric of his trousers, tough at the seams in the waistband, but easier along the way down. Jim, helpfully, removed Seb's shoes and pulled the torn trousers free once they were ripped down to his bindings. He tossed them carelessly over his shoulder, still smiling pleasantly all the while.

Mycroft settled on top of Seb's waist. The bodyguard was clearly enjoying himself, but Mycroft glanced behind him to check on Jim. He crooked a finger for Jim to come closer, then leaned back and stole a kiss. Jim knew what this meant to him, and the criminal didn't seem to mind.

"Sebastian." Mycroft didn't even have to say the man's name to get his attention; he wasn't looking anywhere else. "I seem to recall... something. Something about Jim being present for particular explorations." The boy fingered his knife thoughtfully. "Rather convenient that he's here now."

The heat and hardness growing beneath Mycroft told him the man read him loud and clear. Seb took a deep breath, easing the spike of lust that ran through him at Mycroft's suggestion and the look in Jim's eye while he bent, sitting behind Mycroft, and placed a kiss on the boy's neck.

Seb blew out the air he'd been holding and flashed a grin. "Seems so." He shifted his hips, angling them up so Mycroft could feel him growing hard. "Sure you want me tied up for that?"

"You'll have to convince me that it'll be worth my while to let you... loose. I'm not going to let you go, but I might untie you." The flat of the blade was pressed against Seb's skin, just so Mycroft could see the gooseflesh it raised from the cold metal. Mycroft's smile only grew when he felt Jim's mouth on his neck. "I think Jim wants a show, and you don't want to disappoint either of us."

"Oh no, wouldn't want to do that," Seb breathed.

Jim's rumbling chuckle behind Mycroft said he thought as much. "Let's take this into the bedroom," Jim said. "Much more comfortable." And his bed was definitely large enough. Jim's hands stroked down Mycroft's chest, pressing his small back against Jim and causing him to rock against Sebastian below. The man underneath him groaned softly.

Mycroft's gaze lost focus for a moment as his attention was diverted between Jim and Sebastian. The idea of being trapped between the two of them made the boy completely lose the power of speech for a split second. He opted to nod in agreement and grabbed hold of the chain linking Sebastian's cuffed wrists. "...you'll have to untie his feet."

"I think we can trust him to be good for us on the way there," Jim laughed against Mycroft's ear before disentangling himself from the boy and undoing the cord around Seb's legs. Jim was right - Seb didn't fight them when Mycroft pulled at his cuffs. He did have very good incentive to cooperate. He climbed to his feet, the boy's tugging truly not doing much to help. When he was standing though, at double Mycroft’s height, he didn't try to hold back a smirk.

Mycroft didn't much care. Seb was letting him have his illusion of control and complying, and for the moment that was all that mattered. The boy led him back through the flat like he was property, smiling to himself all the while. The night had definitely taken a turn for the better.

"Obedient thus far," Mycroft commented. He glanced up at Seb once they reached Jim's bedroom - it was a long way up. Keys appeared and dangled from Mycroft’s fingertips as he considered the blond, then unlocked the cuffs.

Seb rubbed his wrists and rolled his shoulders with a spark of satisfaction.

Jim's high peel of laughter rang out behind them. "I don't know if I'd have done that if I were you…" he teased, fingers dancing along Mycroft's collarbone as he passed by, moving into the room. He dropped into the armchair and crossed his legs, leaning back and looking for all the world like a king ready to be entertained.

"Nervous, Jim?" Seb shot over Mycroft's head as he laid a hand on the small of the boy's back.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and glanced between the two men. Jim's posture screamed of entitlement, which irritated Mycroft more than a little, but he chalked it up to the price of playing this game.

Jim wasn't nervous, but Mycroft certainly was. And covering it with a veneer of bravado and attempts at intimidation. "Sit down, Sebastian." He pushed at the man's chest, more for suggestion than anything else. If he couldn't win in a fight against Jim, there was no way he'd be able to force Seb into anything.

Sebastian turned his attention to Mycroft and complied. He fell onto the bed, spreading his knees so that the boy could stand between them, and smiled up at him. Sebastian didn't look at all nervous either, but his gaze for Mycroft, and only for Mycroft, was kind. He knew the boy was anxious. Reaching out, he brushed his hands along Mycroft's hips and up his sides. Without words to spoil the illusion, he told the boy not to listen to Jim.

A flicker of unease showed through Mycroft's eyes as he regarded Seb for a moment. He could feel Jim's gaze boring into him. Being put in the spotlight, watched by more than one person, was giving him more than a touch of stage fright.

"...Jim's been kind enough to let me borrow you. Prove to me that you're worth it, and I'll borrow you again. Perhaps more often, if you impress me." Mycroft felt relief wash through him; his voice hadn't wavered for a moment, even when he'd glanced down.

Seb smiled up at the boy. Undoubtedly, he was aware of Jim, too, but outwardly it didn't seem to affect him. Perhaps because taking care of Mycroft would demand most of his attention.

"I'll do my best," Seb said and pulled Mycroft up on the bed with him. His arms wrapped around him and stubble brushed the boy's chin, and this was familiar. This, they had done a dozen times, with Mycroft sitting in Seb's lap, feeling the man hard beneath him, chests and mouths pressed together with Seb bending down to meet him.

Jim leaned back with an easy grin, content to watch in silence for the moment.

Seb could feel the tension in Mycroft's body ease a bit as they kissed. The boy was far more confident with this and knew what to expect. This, he trusted Seb to do without hurting him - on purpose or by accident. Mycroft never quite lost his awareness of Jim in the background, but Seb was doing his utmost at providing distraction.

One small hand snaked down in between them and palmed Seb through his last remaining scrap of clothing.

Immediately Seb groaned and lifted his hips. He'd been waiting for this for a long time and Mycroft could easily feel how excited he was. Seb steadied himself with one hand on the bed behind him. The other he snaked up Mycroft's back, lifting his shirt along the way and pulling the loose material over his head. They pressed back together quickly. Seb laid back and pulled the boy down on top of him, working open the button at his trousers and sliding them down his hips.

Even with the trust that had built up between them over the last few days, Mycroft was looking increasingly nervous after each garment was removed. He shifted to let Seb remove his trousers, then wound his arms around the man's torso and closed his eyes, just concentrating on breathing. He could feel Seb's hands sliding up his back again, this time without the barrier of his shirt.

"...you'll stop if I tell you to." Mycroft meant for his words to be an order, but they came out as a whispered question.

"I will." Sebastian's hands were as soothing as they could be. He ran them down Mycroft's neck, down his sides, lifting Mycroft's legs so he was straddling the man's waist. He moved back until they were sitting against the headboard, which actually brought them closer to Jim, but Seb kept Mycroft’s eyes on him. He kissed the boy again and flipped them over, but he didn't trap him. He moved down Mycroft's body with his mouth, over his chest and stomach, letting the boy move where he wanted.

Getting trapped had been one of the things Mycroft had worried about, but thus far Sebastian was being surprisingly... thoughtful. Even without bindings keeping him in line. Perhaps he was considering what was necessary to make Mycroft agree to more of this in the future. Perhaps Seb had simply grown that attached. Mycroft was finding it difficult to tell.

The boy bit back a moan as Seb's mouth followed the slight curve of his hip, stopping short of where all of his attention and blood had suddenly been diverted.

Mycroft felt hot breath first. Blue eyes glanced up to meet him, and Seb did it again. His tongue licked a slow circle around Mycroft's small cock and then up the underside, teasing it to full hardness. Like Jim, Seb knew what he was doing. A small relief. When Mycroft had had enough of the teasing, Seb took it into his mouth and began sucking.

Mycroft's fingers curled into Seb's hair and his lips parted in a gasp. The pressure was maddening. Best of all, the lust it summoned was doing wonders for banishing Mycroft's nervousness. He felt Seb's tongue swirl around the head of his cock and he couldn't quite stop his hips from thrusting up.

A small sound drew his attention, and Mycroft turned his head. He found Jim eyes locked on him with rapt attention.

Jim was still smiling, resting completely still, curled into the chair with his hand on his chin. Mycroft could tell he liked what he was seeing, Jim's eyes were eating him up.

And very importantly, Seb didn't mind. He didn't even mind when the boy's hips bucked up against his mouth. Mycroft wasn't big enough or strong enough to hurt him. Seb simply kept one hand over Mycroft's hip, fingers kneading into the soft skin of his arse as he worked.

Mycroft's eyes closed. Watching Jim watch him was too much. Even now, he felt seared.

His hands stroked through Seb's hair in encouragement. Mycroft remembered pieces of another conversation with the bodyguard, when the man had recounted his story about his close encounters with tigers. A shiver raced up his spine and he looked down. Their eyes met, and Mycroft could almost feel phantom claws sinking into his skin. He nodded.

One of the scars on Seb's face pulled tight in pleasure. He moved back up Mycroft's body, not a very long crawl, kissed him, and reached across to the nightstand. In the second drawer, getting no help from Jim, he found the bottle of lube.

When he sat back with Mycroft, he let the boy watch while he coated his fingers in it, then reached down between his legs. Seb's palm brushed over his dick, a pleasurable sensation while his finger slid the gel underneath and between his cheeks. Back and forth Seb did this, making sure it felt good, watching Mycroft watching him, Jim forgotten for the moment, before one of his fingers slowly pushed in.

Mycroft bit his lower lip as he felt himself breached. Even Seb's fingers were larger, blunt where Jim's were slender and dexterous. Mycroft's body was getting used to sexual activity, but it still burned.

Far better to watch Seb's expressions while he worked; the man's blue eyes were narrowed with a mix of focus and pleasure. Mycroft grunted when Seb brushed over his prostate, then shivered again as the sound sparked a hunger in the older man's gaze.

Impulsively, Seb leaned down and brushed their mouths together. Mycroft's lips were incredibly soft. His mouth was so small, just like the rest of him, and Sebastian still was in a state of marvel over it, one that Jim would surely hang over his head later.

He worked more lube into his touch, moving his finger in and out, until it slid easily, still keeping pressure against the boy's cock as his wrist brushed past it every time. It wasn't as good as his mouth had been, but it helped distract Mycroft until he was worked open a little more. Then Seb added another large finger.

Mycroft twined his arms around Seb's neck and held him close, seeking out another kiss. Anything to distract from the discomfort. Mycroft was well aware that Seb was being careful and taking his time; that alone told him something. Impatient or no, he still had his rigid control firmly in place, and he was making a concerted effort to make things as painless as possible.

After a few more minutes, Mycroft felt a third digit slip in. He regarded Seb with wide eyes, not quite able to believe that things had actually gotten this far. Part of him had still thought, even with Jim's assurances, that his body simply would be unable to adjust so far. His breathing grew shallow again.

Seb bent close, but bypassed his mouth and instead whispered a hush in his ear, trying to calm the boy. Seb could tell when Mycroft was in pain. He was an expert on the subject, and he knew that right now it was merely discomfort. Overthinking it was making the boy nervous. He twisted his fingers and drew them deep and watched Mycroft’s eyes close.

"It's going to hurt at first," he whispered against Mycroft's ear. There was no avoiding it. "But it won't be anything you can't take, and it'll get better. I'll go slow."

Now Jim was really watching in fascination. Seb was trying to ignore him, but it made sense. For as many compromising positions as he'd put the gunman in, Jim had never seen him act like this for anyone. The criminal filed it all away, his cruel mind knowing he could use it later when he needed to.

Mycroft clung to Seb as his own emotions played out, no longer even attempting to keep up the pretense of seduction and control. Curiosity and lust eventually beat down his fear. Seb had promised to stop when asked, and if things turned out to be too painful, Mycroft would simply call him off.

So he hoped.

"Okay," he whispered back. He watched Seb shift back and nodded, answering the unspoken request for confirmation. He was ready to try.

Seb kissed him greedily, working his fingers in a few last thrusts before he pulled them out. More lube was added, and the bottle had warmed, the sensation of it dripping over Mycroft's sensitive skin pleasant now. Seb spread more of it over his own cock, pumping a few times into his fist while he watched the boy. Mycroft was biting his lip between his teeth, red and swollen from their kisses, and he looked so completely open and vulnerable. Entirely fuckable.

Seb bent over him and had to kiss him again, channeling his eagerness into it instead. When he was ready and under control, he lined up the head of his cock, eased Mycroft's legs apart in a better position, and pushed in slowly.

Mycroft's fingers dug into Seb's skin as he grounded himself. His grey eyes were impossibly wide, half from pain and half from shock. It wasn't the worst the boy had ever endured, not by a long shot, but his body was screaming at him that this wasn't a normal sensation and his own nervousness was making his muscles clench. Everything felt impossibly tight and his breathing came in short pants.

Mycroft watched Seb's eyes darken and turn predatory, but the older man stayed controlled and slow. It seemed like forever, but eventually Seb was fully sheathed. Mycroft trembled and gave Seb a shaky smile. "...ow."

The blond’s eyes closed in pleasure, and there was a definite shake in his breath as well. When Mycroft's trembling subsided, Sebastian pulled out slowly, recreating the burn all over again. When he saw the boy wince, he lifted Mycroft's hips and eased the pressure somewhat. Small legs were wrapped around his back and they clung to him tightly, trembling again. He pushed in slowly, shallower this time, watching all the while, but he couldn't help loving the way Mycroft's face scrunched in pain underneath him. It was unavoidable at that point, even as careful as he was being.

Sex with Sebastian was unquestionably more painful than Mycroft's experiences with being penetrated by Jim, but even so, he could feel his body gradually loosening. He focused on breathing and watching Seb's face. Mycroft didn't miss the flickers of pleasure in the man's eyes when Seb observed his pain, but Mycroft _understood_ that. He would have felt the same if their positions were switched.

Seb's hand wrapped around his cock again, and Mycroft sighed in relief at the distraction.

When Mycroft relaxed and Seb pushed in again, the man groaned and dropped his head to the boy's shoulder. He kept most of his weight resting on his elbow, but couldn't resist pressing in close to the boy. A few drops of sweat beaded at Mycroft's temples, curling the hair around his face. His grey eyes were clear as crystal in the light of the room while he stared, open mouthed, up at Sebastian. Seb grit his teeth, lust coiling in his gut at the sight the boy made, before he found Mycroft's mouth again. Still slick with lube, Seb stroked in time with his slow thrusts. He could feel the small body beneath him coming around, opening up for him, slowly enticed by the stimulation.

At some point, the discomfort vanished and was replaced by a sense of fullness and pleasure. Mycroft exhaled sharply, examining every inch of Seb's lust-darkened features now that he was so close. The flush of color to his skin made his scars stand out in sharp, pale lines, while his normally light eyes turned into the color of deep water. Kissing had reddened the man's lips, making it all the more tempting to taste them again.

Mycroft's legs tightened around Seb's waist and he scratched his nails down the man's back. "...what you wanted?"

Seb gasped. " _Fuck_ yeah."

He was driving deeper, watching Mycroft's back arch under him as the boy got used to yet another sensation, but he was enjoying it now. As much as Seb had liked watching his face in pain, he was now getting a much better response. He wrapped an arm around Mycroft and ground his hips down with long, languid thrusts, loving the way the boy's head fell back against the bed in rapture. Seb scraped his teeth up his thin neck, finding the fading marks he and Jim had left behind and the skin as supple as ever.

Mycroft watched Seb with half-lidded eyes, grinning as he felt him close in on the old bruises. "Go ahead." He didn't mind being marked. The livid rosettes were actually a comfort when he was alone, reminding him every time he glimpsed them in the mirror or felt a dull ache under his clothing that he wasn't _always_ banished to solitude. He was wanted for more than his intellectual gifts.

Teeth sunk in and sent a lance of pain through Mycroft's nerves, and the boy moaned in response. Seb did something to shift the angle of his thrusts, and suddenly Mycroft was seeing stars. "...oh _fuck_..." Small hands scrabbled against the older man's shoulders, trying to find a handhold to cling to.

Seb didn't stop. His pace only quickened, finding that angle and keeping it, driving into the boy beneath him over and over again. Mycroft’s sharp nails tore scratches into his skin, even catching on the deeper scars and digging in harder, but Sebastian didn't care. The boy was almost folded in half beneath him, but Mycroft was in such a state of desperate ecstasy that he didn't notice. Seb's big hand was trapped between them, and he was grunting with every move, so deep it was nearly a growl.

Mycroft's world had contracted down to this; he couldn't even remember where they were anymore, much less that there was someone else in the room with the two of them. Seb's hand couldn't move at this angle, but his thrusts rocked them enough that it provided all the friction Mycroft needed. Seb's rhythm was steadily speeding up and all he could do was gasp for air and hold on.

After a minute or two, Mycroft's eyes rolled up and closed, and his small frame tensed in climax, tightening even further around Seb's cock.

The man let out a guttural moan and rolled them so that Mycroft was riding atop Seb's cock, still trembling through the aftershocks. Seb’s head fell back against the mattress and his hands gripped Mycroft's hips as he pumped himself into the boy. As soon as Seb was coming, back arched, strong fingers digging harshly into pale skin, screwing his eyes shut as the pleasure hit him, a second pair of arms wrapped around Mycroft's torso.

Jim, fully clothed, had crawled up behind him, unnoticed until he was pressed against the boy's back. Soft lips brushed against Mycroft's jaw while Jim soaked up the shudders still running through his small body.

It was almost too much, trapped between these two men. Mycroft didn't know whether to fall forward or back. He arched against Jim while his fingers stroked as much of Seb as he could reach, acutely aware of the heat filling his core.

Sebastian looked like a wild thing come undone, muscles twitching after being sated from the hunt. Jim, however, seemed to still be hungry. Mycroft felt Jim's hand press over his still-rapid heartbeat. The boy turned to kiss him.

Jim's mouth met his. His hands brushed down Mycroft’s front and rested at his lower abdomen, right next to Seb's where he still held the boy’s hips, but Jim kept Mycroft seated in place. Sebastian was watching them now with lethargic interest, his heavy lidded eyes following the movement of Jim's fingers downward and then up to where there mouths met, kissing sloppily.

One of Jim's hands disappeared to hastily unbutton his own trousers. "That was such a compelling performance," he breathed against Mycroft’s mouth, grinning his devil's grin, "I just don't think I can resist."

Mycroft was still dazed; he absorbed Jim's words without processing what Jim meant, drunk on sensation and endorphins. Everything felt surreal and dreamlike - Mycroft had had a difficult enough time imagining finding one lover in his lifetime, much less two at the same time. Yet here he was, still impaled while his other lover whispered dark intent into his ear.

Mycroft bit his lower lip as his brain finally caught up with what he'd been observing. "...you?" His tongue wasn't quite there yet.

Jim's smile pulled wider as he chuckled, finally lifting the boy's hips and drawing him back far enough to pull free of Sebastian. The blond’s large hands slid down his thighs as he was pressed flat against Jim, but Seb let him go, watching in a daze. Mycroft could feel Jim's hard length pressing behind him, wet with lube he'd squeezed from the discarded bottle.

"Think you can handle one more round?" Jim asked sweetly, his hands guiding Mycroft back, already pressing the head of his cock against the boy's hole.

Mycroft swallowed and nodded, his voice a hoarse rasp. "Yeah." Truthfully, he didn't think Jim would have taken no for an answer. The word was barely out of his mouth before Jim sank into him without ceremony, taking advantage of the boy's already-loosened muscles. Mycroft started with a cry and nearly jumped out of Jim's grasp as penetration brushed past oversensitive flesh. He shook as Jim pulled him back down. "W-wait, it's t-too- ... _f-fuck_ , does it-... always like this, r-right after?"

A lopsided grin broke out over Seb's face. "It can," the man gave a short laugh, and really what he meant was 'it can, if you do it right'.

Jim chuckled as well, obviously pleased at Mycroft's surprise, and probably his squirming. His hips snapped forward, beginning a rhythm that grew quicker with every thrust. He kept Mycroft pressed against him firmly, back to front, riding Jim and having to twist in order to see the man. Still, they were giving Seb quite a show.

Mycroft was shaking and not even attempting to stifle the wanton noises coming out of his mouth, his nerves too overstimulated to permit him to think straight. His hands turned into claws and sunk into the bodyguard's legs, trying to ground himself aside from Jim's arms holding him fast. No amount of writhing lessened the assault, and Mycroft's keening took on an edge of desperation.

Jim's breathing quickened. He really wasn't going to last long like that, not after he'd been watching them for so long, ramping up the tension inside him, and _definitely_ not with Mycroft trembling so beautifully and making such sounds. Jim pushed the boy onto his knees, bending over his back to thrust in even deeper. He practically had to hold Mycroft up to do it before Sebastian caught the boy by his arms and held him for Jim.

Mycroft screamed as he climaxed for the second time in a matter of minutes, intensely enough that the edges of his vision started to dim. Two pairs of hands held him fast, Seb below him and Jim above. The boy met Seb's gaze with a glazed look. He heard Jim grunt before he felt the echoing twitch as the other man came inside him.

Jim pressed deep inside him, body plastered to his back, sweat seeping through his perfectly starched shirt. Seb had to keep them both steady while Jim gasped for breath above him, letting himself collapse against Mycroft until he could recover.

Slowly, Jim pulled himself together, leaving Mycroft spent under him. He redid his trousers and straightened his jacket, head lolling back to catch his breath, but his eyes never left the boy, trained down on him where he lay in Seb's lap, head turned to the side just enough to see Jim. When Jim was finished, presentable but for the deep flush to his skin and the giant sweat stain against the front of his shirt, he bent down and brushed his lips against Mycroft’s cheek. "Thank you, parnisha."

Mycroft was still in a daze, draped bonelessly atop Seb's body. He blinked in confusion at Jim's words, eyes tracking Jim as he straightened up. "...parnisha?" The term had to be from another language, but Mycroft couldn’t place it without context. Certainly it wasn't a language he knew - or, perhaps more accurately, not a language he remembered knowing.

Jim smiled like a snake. "Russian." He only half answered the boy's unstated question, but his tone made it sound like some kind of endearment.

Sebastian drew an arm around Mycroft's back and brushed the damp strands of hair from his eyes. "I think it means 'kiddo', or something like that," he laughed softly, more than content to have Mycroft lying with him.

Jim slid from the bed, not correcting the other man, running his fingers through Mycroft's hair and over his ear one last time as he went.

Mycroft was torn between his discontent at being called _kiddo_ , never mind if it was in another language, and pleasurable satisfaction as both men stroked him with affection. Or as close to affection as people like them could get. The boy decided he didn't have the energy or interest to start a fight, not after everything they'd just done together.

Mycroft's head dropped back against Sebastian's chest with a groan. "I think I need a shower."

Seb shook under him with laughter. "I think you're right. Just as soon as I let you up." He grinned and wrapped his other arm around the boy, who was having trouble moving besides.

Jim rolled his head languidly and stretched his shoulders as he made to leave, the heavy sigh that escaped him the only sign that he was fighting exhaustion.

Mycroft listened to Jim's footsteps retreating down the hallway. Worry coiled in his gut again - not so much for himself at the moment, now that Jim's mood had improved, but for the shorter man. James Moriarty didn't seem to have any sense of where his thresholds were, nor an off-switch. He simply burned with obsessive focus until there was nothing left of himself.

"...Jim needs to sleep," Mycroft whispered. His concern must have bled into his tone, as he felt Seb shift underneath him.

Seb moved back to see the boy's face. Mycroft's eyelids were still drooping, but his gaze was concentrated.

Seb sighed. He looked to the door, then back at Mycroft. "I know." Reluctantly, as though resigning himself to what he was about to do, he lifted the boy's slender body and slid off the bed. "I'll see what I can do." The sniper quickly pulled on the pair of trousers he'd discarded and went after Jim.

Voices sounded in the other room, but Seb returned alone. He stood in the doorway for a moment, giving Mycroft an apologetic shrug before he dropped back down on the bed with the boy. "Sorry," he ran one large hand down the curve of Mycroft's back.

When Jim did reappear, he was on his phone typing away. He waltzed in without taking his eyes off it. "Mycroft, I'll need you in an hour."

Seb glanced to the boy. Their eyes met, and besides the worry for Jim's health and state of mind, the bodyguard could tell Mycroft was nervous about whatever Jim said he needed him for earlier. He must have decided something because suddenly, the man reached out one large hand and caught Jim by the wrist.

Mycroft's heart immediately leapt into his throat as Jim turned suddenly, lips curled in a snarl as his anger resurfaced. Mycroft knew that Seb wouldn't severely hurt Jim - _couldn't_ \- but Jim had no such reservations about punishing his bodyguard. The boy had grown too fond of Seb to tolerate losing him to a temper tantrum.

Still bare, Mycroft ducked under Seb's arm and got between the two men. He did his best to ignore the uncomfortable, sticky trickle down his thighs.

Malice was replaced with surprise when Jim found himself face to face with Mycroft. A still very naked and ravished looking Mycroft. Whatever he'd been about to do, he paused.

"Jim." Seb still hadn't let go of his wrist, but at least Mycroft was proving to be a good shield. "Why don't you take a break. Just for that hour. Rest with us."

Dark eyes narrowed at Sebastian over Mycroft's shoulder, but Mycroft was looking at Jim imploringly too, and the boy drew his gaze.

Jim gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes petulantly. When Seb wouldn't let go, Jim transferred the phone to his other hand and pocketed it. Jim bent down to the boy's level. " _Worried_ about me, are you?"

"Yeah." Mycroft's soft agreement wasn't a lie. There was a watery, haunted look to his gaze as it settled on Jim. It was the look of someone watching a loved one heading for a collision and unable to do anything to stop the inevitable, messy end. "I know you're worried about things too. You want this fixed as soon as possible. I do too, but it's not going to do us any good if you push past your limits and kill yourself trying. Or kill _me_ trying, because you're too tired and we make a mistake."

Small fingers closed around Jim's other wrist. "Please. Just rest, just a little bit."

"He's right, you know," Seb agreed, and together they pulled, bringing Jim reluctantly down with them.

Jim’s knees hit the side of the bed and he groaned in consternation, but let himself fall against Mycroft when the boy eagerly plastered himself to Jim's chest. For a moment, they were a pile of limbs on the bed until they got themselves sorted out.

"I'll keep you here if I have to," Seb warned.

"No you won't," Jim shot back, the sound muffled by a pillow.

"Yes, we will," Mycroft countered and twined their legs together. He shot Sebastian a grateful look, knowing just how difficult it was for the man to stand up to his employer. And dangerous. "Getting some rest won't take up enough time to change anything. I'm not going anywhere, and I want you to not to be hallucinating from sleep deprivation if you're going to try experimenting on me, ok?" Mycroft wasn't keen on Jim experimenting on him _at all_ , but doing it when the man was this far gone added a whole other level of danger.

Jim heaved a long suffering sigh, but didn't move. It was a testament to how tired he really was that he allowed this. Satisfied for the time being, Sebastian finally let the man's wrist go. He crawled over behind Mycroft and pressed himself to the boy's bare back. For such a little thing, he was very warm, if a bit sticky still. They would shower later. Right then it was more important that they get Jim to sleep.

Mycroft's eyes widened as he was boxed in, stuck between Jim and Seb. Odd as the sensation was, he didn't feel trapped like he was expecting. Jim was still filed away as a threat in part of his mind, at least in his current unhinged state, but Sebastian added a feeling of... security. Jim still undoubtedly held the lion's share of the man's loyalty, but Seb was fond of him. Fond enough to risk life and limb to Jim's anger.

Mycroft smiled faintly and reached behind him, communicating through touch what he couldn't in words.

Seb pressed a kiss to the back of Mycroft's neck when the boy's hand landed on his hip. He was warm. Jim was warm. Between them, there was almost no need for a blanket. Jim nuzzled an open kiss against Mycroft’s mouth. He was already losing the battle with consciousness, but his fingers curled against Mycroft's skin and he burrowed as deeply as he could into the bed they'd made.

Mycroft felt... _something_ as he watched Jim's features relax and felt his breathing slow. It was similar to what he felt for his brother, but shaded with another, more unfamiliar emotion. The urge to touch Jim was nearly overwhelming, stopped only by the knowledge that Jim desperately needed sleep and Mycroft didn't want to wake him.

The boy settled for watching Jim sleep. Moments like this seemed too precious to waste.

"Knowing him, he'll wake up on his own in an hour," Seb whispered in Mycroft's ear. "I suggest we enjoy the moment while it lasts." The blond rested his chin on Mycroft's smaller shoulder blade, but otherwise held him without moving. Seb was watching Jim, too. It probably wasn't often he got to see Jim like this. The little criminal, who didn't look very dangerous at the moment, was out cold.

Mycroft turned his head slightly to look at the bodyguard. "Seb? I... I really don't want him to take me back to the lab. He hasn't been testing what he's been working on for very long. For all we know, it might kill the repressed areas and keep on eating through the rest of the brain. I know Jim's afraid," he whispered. "But I don't... want him to kill me by accident. Or permanently damage my brain in ways he isn't expecting."

"Yeah, I know." Seb ran a soothing hand down Mycroft's arm. "We just gotta keep reminding him. When he gets set on something…." The man sighed in a warm breath of air against Mycroft's neck. "I'm gonna come this time; I'll be right there with you. And I'm not gonna let him do anything to hurt you." Seb laughed softly. "You know he'd kill me if I let anything happen to you."

Mycroft's unusual confidence from the last few days was gone. With his brows furrowed, grey eyes glinting with worry, he looked more like a child and less like a fae thing merely wearing the skin of a boy. "Yeah, but... he might kill you if you try to stop him, too. I was sure he was going to hurt you before I stepped between you two." If he wouldn't listen to Mycroft on this, there was no way he was going to listen to Sebastian. Mycroft _knew_ this.

He wondered if, perhaps, it would be safer if he ran away. Not for long, just hiding long enough until Jim calmed down and wasn't so keen on dosing him with experimental drugs.

They were in a bit of a conundrum.

If this had been any of Jim's usual projects, no matter how hell bent he was on finding a solution, he would not have been devastated if he'd destroyed his subject in the process. Jim would have been furious and unmanageable, definitely, but after a week of hell he and Sebastian would move on. In this case, however, Jim's desperation itself was beginning to drive him to take these risks.

What Mycroft said was true, even if Seb were willing to face the danger of a furious and desperate Jim for the boy's sake. "We should be able to hold him off for a while at least," Seb said gruffly. "He's in a good mood, things have been going well so far. If we can convince him not to do anything more invasive than another scan until he's _sure_ , it'll buy us some time. I'll take the risk."

Mycroft shivered and dropped his gaze. Seb would try, he was sure of that... but only so far. After a certain point, he'd either give up or be killed in a fit of impatient rage, and Mycroft's fate would be the same either way.

The boy had a choice. He could gamble his fate on Jim's sense and good graces, or hope that he'd gotten the prototype treatment right... or run if he spotted an opening and hide until he thought Jim had returned to a more sensible state of mind. None of the options seemed appealing.

Mycroft watched Jim's sleeping face and wondered why everything in his life felt like a trap.

Seb fell silent. He made himself comfortable behind Mycroft and held him without needing to worry on the situation any further. Perhaps the thought of hiding Mycroft hadn't occurred to Sebastian because he doubted it was possible. Maybe because Jim would know his bodyguard had been in on it, and there would be even more hell to pay that way.

Eventually, Seb stopped stroking soft circles over the boy's abdomen and succumbed to sleep.

Mycroft couldn't sleep. Fear had always been one of his greatest weaknesses, a phantom that turned up again and again to torment his psyche. Once his mind latched onto something it was abominably difficult to shake it loose. Some fears eased with time, while others transformed: he no longer feared Lovecraftian monstrosities lurking in closets and cellars, but he did fear others like himself who might be hidden away in the shadows. Or the wrong person peeling back the human mask and finding what lay beneath.

All the boy could think about was what Jim had been like earlier - the sense of helplessness and terror when he'd been pinned to the couch, knowing the older man might drag him off to the lab at any moment. It echoed his fear from the day of his first kill, the first time he'd seen Seb and Jim at each other's throats before it sunk into a morass of sexual jealousy. It was the suspicion that he wasn't quite regarded as an equal. He was simply a step or two above normal prey, and that meant his protection was limited.

Mycroft fretted and wondered whether he could disentangle himself from the two men without waking them, but never quite worked up the courage to actually move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while to get this latest chapter out. I've been dealing with some computer issues and had to replace a few major parts to get things running again. Thankfully, no data was lost. I should be updating on a regular basis again.
> 
> Be prepared. Things are about to get interesting.


	17. Chapter 17

As predicted by Sebastian, Jim was the first of the two to wake, exactly an hour later. Neither his breathing nor his heart rate changed and he didn't move, his eyes simply fluttered open and then he was staring at Mycroft. His pupils constricted, dark brown irises just barely distinguishable from the black, and focused on the boy. Jim closed them briefly and inhaled. It must have been the first nap he'd gotten in days.

Mycroft was curious just how Jim had trained himself to wake with such accuracy and efficiency, but he let his questions die unspoken. One small hand drifted up to stroke Jim's cheek, skin and stubble alike. An hour didn't look like it had made much of an impact on the criminal's exhaustion, but Mycroft supposed it was better than nothing at all.

"How do you feel?" he murmured.

Jim closed his eyes, luxuriating in the touch. "Hmm… better." There was a hint of a smile around the corners of Jim's mouth telling Mycroft that Jim was at least pleased to wake up to him. If that had been at all unclear, then Jim pressing up against him and running a hand down his bare side said it plainly. The man yawned. "Back to work I'm afraid." He patted Mycroft's hip and sat up, climbing over the bed and jostling Seb into wakefulness. "C'mon then."

Mycroft tensed, knowing Jim would have to be confronted, and soon. The sooner, the better. "Are we just going to do another scan? Just a scan to check on whether anything has happened, right? We're not testing the compound yet..."

Mycroft could feel Seb stirring behind him. He was struck with the impulse to wrap the bodyguard around himself in a vain and nonsensical attempt to disappear.

Jim turned and surveyed them both, Seb having sat up to make an imposing figure behind Mycroft's back. Jim must have caught something in the boy's tone or the way he shrunk back against the larger man. "For _now_ , yes. That's all. But Mycroft," he leaned forward, imploring the boy to understand, "soon, very soon, I hope to change that."

"I just don't want to try it if we're not really sure," Mycroft explained. "Wouldn't... it be preferable to gamble on what happens if I regain my memories, rather than killing me by accident if the drug doesn't work? A possibility of less is better than a certainty of loss." Surely Jim could see that.

Jim turned fully, focused intently on Mycroft but calm for the moment, helping the boy down from the bed. "Mycroft," Jim said with what he must have intended to be a reassuring tone, but Mycroft could see that Jim needed to convince him, "I will not _kill_ you. I'm _worried_. I need to hurry. But whatever happens, I need you to come through this." Jim stroked a tangled lock of hair behind his ear and leveled big, black, soulful eyes at the boy. "Whatever I do, I will be certain when I do it. Now, go take a quick shower so we can be on our way."

Mycroft nodded and slipped away to the bathroom, expression schooled into careful neutrality. He wasn't convinced by Jim's words. Paranoia told him that Jim was impatient and desperate - he'd cling so tightly to the first possible solution that showed promise that he'd drown them both.

The boy turned on the taps and washed as quickly as he could. His lower half had settled into an uncomfortable ache from their activities only an hour earlier, but at least the stickiness was scoured from his skin.

When Mycroft returned he found Jim and Seb, both dressed and ready to go, resting in the living room in silence. Seb had the glowing end of a cigarette in hand. He exhaled smoke in a long stream. Jim could not have cared less that Seb was smoking indoors. Outwardly the bodyguard looked as sated and relaxed as any man could be after a round like that, but inwardly Mycroft knew he had not forgotten their brief conversation over what could happen at the lab.

Mycroft hurried back into the bedroom. He tossed on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, too distracted to really care what he looked like. He had greater concerns at the moment, and if he was getting scanned again, he wouldn't be wearing the garments for very long.

Seb's cigarette had disappeared by the time Mycroft returned to the living room, but the heavy scent of tobacco still lingered in the air. The boy slipped into his shoes without being asked; he knew Jim would want to leave immediately.

They left silently, falling into the cadence of step the three of them had grown accustomed to quite naturally. Jim's arm was around Mycroft's shoulder, confident and possessive, all the way out to the parking lot. Seb drove and Jim sat in the back with Mycroft, humming softly to himself with his eyes out the window until they reached the hospital. It was late evening, but Jim had worked out a system for skirting surveillance which involved parking in a side alley, some conveniently placed construction paneling, and a side door with an easily picked lock.

In no time, they were moving through the familiar basement halls. No one stopped them. One nurse even nodded to Jim with a smile, which he returned with his congenial mask firmly in place. They found Dr. Nguyen's lab in less than three minutes, Seb closing and locking the door behind them.

Mycroft did what was needed without asking, heading to the side room to change into the flimsy gowns patients wore during a scan. He stripped down in silence, torn between worrying about what the scans might show and what might happen if Jim decided he wanted to proceed _right then_. Seb might be able to buy him a very short amount of time, if he was willing to pay a horrible price, but even that was no guarantee that Mycroft would be able to escape in time.

The floor tiles were uncomfortably cold on his bare feet when he returned to the main room, though not the only reason he shifted from side to side. "Is it the same as last time, then?"

"Same as last time," Seb confirmed. He took the change and keys out of his pockets, unfastened the watch from his wrist, reached into the back of his trousers and set a gun on the table, and toed off his shoes before he went to help Mycroft up onto the table.

Jim remained a silent, watchful presence in the opposite room behind the glass.

"Don't worry," Seb said when Mycroft was up, swinging his legs over and lying back. Jim might have caught the wider meaning to that statement, not that the boy was nervous about the MRI machine, but he didn't comment.

Mycroft held onto Seb's arm for a split second longer than was strictly necessary. That alone said volumes to the bodyguard, layers of meaning that were left unspoken as the boy finally tucked himself in and waited for the platform to retract. His eyes closed as the machine began humming and warming up for the sweep.

All Mycroft could do was wait. It took a concerted effort to stop himself from fidgeting as his mind wandered. Noises from the machine filled his ears, and there was nothing to see but the darkness behind his eyelids.

It was over after a few minutes, minutes that felt more like ages, but finally the machine shut down. The mechanisms clacking inside it slowed and the table beneath Mycroft slid back into the world.

"All done," Jim confirmed over the speaker from the other room. Mycroft could see him. His head was already bent over the monitor, staring intently and moving from one screen to the next.

Seb returned and helped the boy back down. "Go get changed," he said. _'We'll take it from there,'_ was left unspoken.

Mycroft glanced at Jim's form with haunted eyes, then left him to the data plastered across the screens. He returned to the changing room and redressed. The sour feeling in his stomach had only increased with the wait. Part of the boy was screaming at him to run, _run now_ , while Jim was distracted with the scans and he had a chance.

Mycroft’s diminutive frame was quiet and cautious as he inched back out of the changing room, trying not to draw attention to himself. His eyes were darker than usual as he watched both men, pupils dilated from adrenaline.

As soon as his shoulder rounded the corner, Jim spun in his chair. The man's wild eyes focused on him, making the boy stiffen, but Jim’s features lit up. He stood and in three steps he was across the room, sweeping Mycroft up in his arms and twirling him in a circle. "No further regeneration!" he squealed, "Not on a level that I can measure by eye. This buys us more time than I had expected." He finally set the boy down on his feet. Jim was grinning so wide it must have hurt. "Unfortunately this does put you and Raleigh and McDuff at a tie, and so I can't be certain of their results until one of you tips the scales, _but_ Brown and Connels had been steadily regenerating, and I have yet to see Brown's progress with the refined formula since this afternoon." Jim's eyes turned sharp, excited, and a little relieved to see that Mycroft was still at a standstill.

Mycroft bit his lower lip and nodded. Hearing Jim proclaim that they had more time was a welcome relief. He shivered once he was back down on the ground, soaking up Jim's manic grin and fiery gaze. "So you'll want to check on them, I imagine. How..." Mycroft swallowed, uncertain whether he wanted to hear the answer, but knowing that it was more dangerous to lack the information completely. "... how long do you think we have? Until you feel like you're confident with the test compound?"

"I can't know until I determine their progress, or lack thereof. And study yours in further detail," Jim put his hands on Mycroft's shoulders. "I should know by morning whether the compound is stable or not." The man was wearing a warm smile, but there was an undercurrent of the same impatience about him. It boiled under his skin and behind his dark eyes. Jim's grip on his shoulders tightened minutely for a second. "You should go home. Wait until morning."

Mycroft snatched at the opening without hesitation. "Yeah, alright." He glanced towards Seb, but the hands on his shoulders burned into him and inevitably turned his attention back to Jim. Grey eyes narrowed in concern; Jim still looked drawn, shadowed and pale as death. "Are you sure you're going to be alright? Maybe Seb could come back and bring you coffee."

If Jim worked himself into collapse without somewhere there to catch him, Mycroft had no idea what would happen. Would the authorities even know who they had in their grasp?

"I will be fine, Mycroft. Seb will come back with me for an extra pair of hands with the subjects, that’s all."

Seb nodded. In his current state Jim would have had trouble taking on even a frightened or angry child half his size. Unless they were sedated. And with Jim's logic, sedating them would probably interfere with his test results.

"I'll be back early though," Seb told the boy reassuringly. "You won't have to spend the whole night alone."

Mycroft shot Seb a grateful smile, then drew Jim into a tight embrace, burying his face against the man's chest. He could practically feel the quivering of nervous energy running through Jim, keeping him awake and obsessively focused. "...just be careful, ok?" Mycroft didn't know how much danger a clinic and a few children could pose, but he said it all the same. "Give me a call when you find out more."

Mycroft finally released him and stepped back towards Seb, lacing fingers with the bodyguard's much larger hand.

Jim leaned back with a tight smile as Seb led the boy away. Travelling back down the halls, they passed only one or two people on the way. Jim and Sebastian must have done something to fix the cameras more permanently by now as Seb did not seem at all concerned about them being spotted. He let Mycroft lean into his side as they walked, keeping one arm wrapped securely around his shoulders.

The ride back was quiet. Seb picked up dinner to go, which would keep Mycroft satisfied in a flat without food just a little longer. The blond took Mycroft all the way up to their door and helped put the food away even though Jim was surely waiting on him, just to make sure he got home safely.

Mycroft's anxiety had made his mood noticeably more solemn. Gone was the cheeky, almost snotty overconfidence that the child had displayed the past few days, replaced with the quiet reassurance-seeking behavior that was more reminiscent of the first few days he'd spent in their company. Sebastian had just finished putting the last item into the fridge when he found his own waist encircled.

"Thanks, Seb," Mycroft whispered. Being taken care of by an adult, without judgment, without it stemming from a sense of duty, was something new and precious. Despite himself, Mycroft began to have a twinge of hope. Perhaps it would all turn out alright - Jim would succeed, Jim would be happy, and Sebastian wouldn't get caught in the crossfire.

The man twisted in surprise for a second before his arms came down around Mycroft. "Hey, don't mention it," Seb sighed. Since Jim had decided to "keep" the boy, there had been a definite change in Sebastian's attitude toward him as well, strengthened immensely by Mycroft's interactions with him. Needless to say, Seb could tell all this was wearing on Mycroft. Even Jim could tell, surely - the boy's unease was simply outweighed in his mind by the need to find a solution to their problem.

"I'll be fine for a bit. Just... go take care of him, alright? Don't tell him I said this, but he's an idiot when he gets like this," Mycroft muttered. "Try to make sure he doesn't accidentally ingest anything himself, or say something stupid to one of the clinic staff and set off alarms. I want this to all be over soon so he stops running himself into the ground." Mycroft knew he'd exhibited similar behavior in the past whenever an obsession took hold of him, but it didn't make it easier to watch someone else work themself ragged.

Seb had to laugh softly at that. "I wouldn't be caught dead calling Jim stupid. He'd eat my liver." But the man smiled anyway and ran a big hand soothingly over Mycroft's back. "Have a little faith. Somehow, he makes it through these things. Usually on top, too." There couldn't have been many times when Sebastian had seen Jim trying to take on developmental neuroplasticity in the course of a week, but he had been witness to Jim's prior ventures. "I'll make sure he gets through it."

Mycroft nodded, and his grip on Sebastian tightened momentarily before he let the man go. "Good. That's... pretty much all I can ask for." All of his other concerns would have to wait. Some of them might not even come to fruition, simply lurking in the shadows of possibility. "I'm going to take a better shower and try to get a bit more sleep, if I can manage it."

"Alright. I'll be back before morning." Seb gave him a half smile and went to the door. Mycroft would be alone again, in a flat large enough for an entire family with the sounds of the city filtering up through the windows, reminders that there was a whole world of people bustling along out there, but Jim and Seb were far away - and Jim would remain that way, locked up in the world of his own mind until something gave. Seb paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Mycroft, try not to worry too much."

"I'll try, but I can't really help it," the boy responded with an easy smile, embarrassed that Seb had read him so easily. Reconciling his memories of bottling up everything in his own head with the camaraderie he shared with these two men was... difficult. Remembered habits were proving difficult to shake, which was just further encouragement for Jim to work himself into a frenzy. "I'll be fine, really, especially when all of this is over. Go take care of Jim and bring him back safe."

Seb gave a nod and finally opened the door. The sniper was concerned for him, but Mycroft had proven that he was capable of taking care of himself for long periods of time alone, in spite of his peculiar ways of coping. Right now, Jim's state of mind was the real danger, for them both.

The door closed behind Sebastian, and the deadbolt slid into place. His heavy footfalls withdrew at military pace.

Mycroft sighed once Seb could no longer be heard above the constant background hum of London. He turned and headed for the bathroom, intent on taking a proper shower this time - or perhaps a long bath. Heated water would soothe sore muscles as well as the tangles in his mind. A bath, then, he decided.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror while the taps ran and slowly filled the room with steam. With his clothing removed once more, the bite marks along his neck and shoulders stood out starkly against his skin. His face, too, was strange to look at - he could remember a different reflection, now, a few years older than he currently looked. Longer hair, too, tied back in a rebellious ponytail that had made Mummy's mouth set in a disapproving line at her progeny's waywardness.

Mycroft turned away and settled into a pool of hot water, letting his mind drift away from that train of thought. Discomfort hit him as he sat, his frame taking the opportunity to voice complaints about his bedroom activities. He grasped the side of the tub and shifted his position. The flesh beside his left shoulder blade started to itch, then burn, causing the boy to frown.

It was the only warning he got.

Mycroft nearly drowned in the thrashing that followed, lost in hellish memories of another time. He barely felt the water, too busy coughing up phantom blood and grappling with his former companion-turned-assassin. Everything was pain and fear and rage, and liquid burned in his lungs.

It took a concerted effort to claw himself out of the tub and onto the floor once the functional pieces of Mycroft's mind realized what was going on. He made it to the toilet in time to rid his lungs of the water he'd unwittingly inhaled, along with the remaining contents of his stomach. Terror gripped him that had little to do with his newly reactivated memories. Mycroft had enough of his wits about him to know that, should he look, he wouldn't find a bloody hole through his chest.

What he had was a more complicated problem. New maturity gave him new perspectives on his situation and launched him right into a panic. He'd been tricked, manipulated, _used_. Boundaries had been crossed that he'd sworn he'd never attempt. He'd killed several men, tortured beyond anything he could remember doing before, and willingly submitted into what would certainly be viewed as abuse by the general populace.

Mycroft's eyes flicked towards the bathroom door. He had no way of knowing when either of his captors would return, and there would be no way to hide this. Sebastian might be convinced, but Jim was far too clever and he was far too off-balance. The criminal would see right through any facade he tried to adopt.

The boy forced himself up on shaky legs and stumbled towards the bedroom. His mind was whirring, set on dressing and grabbing what he could, plotting out what he could remember of London. He had to leave, _now_ , before the choice was taken away from him.

* * *

When Seb returned to the hospital, Jim was just as enthused as he had been when the man had left. Jim had discovered, on closer inspection, that Mycroft's progress had not stopped altogether, but it had slowed so significantly that it was almost inconsequential. According to his timeline, this would give them days of extra time to work, even if Mycroft's progress returned to what it had been previously. To say that Jim was relieved was quite an understatement.

When they left the hospital, he walked with a bounce in his step and his mind fixed on the future. Jim was expecting positive results on his newest test with Brown.

The two men's breath hung like mist in the air as they climbed into the car, hidden in a corner of the dark lot. They sped away from hospital, its patrons unaware of having been host to two of England's most wanted criminals and their latest experiment.

Sebastian drove in silence while Jim kicked his legs up on the dash, drawing his seat back and letting the whirlwind of analyses and comparisons and calculations flow through his mind. It was a long way out to their country hideaway, but Jim's good mood didn't waver.

From the road, their destination didn't look to be anything more than an old lot, worn away with time and buildings no longer in existence. Even the dirt road turning off faded away into the countryside, surrounded by ancient trees forming a canopy over the land.

Seb took it anyway, slowly bringing them onto what had once been a gravel road, turning into grass, and driving along an unmarked trail through the forest. Half a kilometer in, he killed the engine and Jim snapped to attention, gliding out of the car and going to the remains of an old war bunker. He undid the lock while Seb lifted the latch and both men descended into the darkness.

Something shifted in the back of the underground cellar. Something else sniffled softly. What they found when they turned on the light made Jim go deathly still. In four makeshift cells with four captive children, two lay cold and dead.

Jim stalked to each of the cages, eyes wide with anger. Raleigh and Brown, looked to have been dead for only a few hours. They had been fine when Jim left. Jim whirled on the two others. McDuff didn't look very good. The boy was lying on his cot on his stomach and breathing slowly, but Connels was alert. His brown eyes narrowed and he watched Jim stiffly but intently when the man hooked his fingers in the fencing of the cage. " _What happened?_ " Jim snarled.

The boy set his jaw, much more defiant in the face of his captor than he had been only hours ago. Jim's interest honed in on that. "Whatever you injected us with, it _killed_ them. And it's killing McDuff too. What you're trying to accomplish is _impossible_ in the amount of time you're trying to do it, and you're going to lose us!" He was visibly shaky at the end, but it had been such a show of bravado that Jim's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Jim unlocked the cage and wheeled the door aside. Connels shrank back in fear as the dark haired man approached with wild eyes.

Desperate, trying to talk sense into the man and save himself punishment, Connels started talking. "We didn't even know what happened with the compound we created in the first place! This regression? It was a fluke, entirely! We couldn't recreate it if you asked us. For all we know, it put us in an unstable condition from the very beginning!"

Jim stopped with his hands around the boy's arms, staring into his face furiously as a certain realization gradually dawned on him on him, the evidence of it unfolding right before his eyes. "You remember now, don't you?" Jim whispered.

Connels froze in the man's gaze, so frightened he couldn't speak.

" _Don't you!?_ " Jim exploded.

"Yes," the boy nodded, shaking all over.

Jim howled in fury, whirling and making for the door. Sebastian, having watched in dull horror, jumped to lock Connels back in and tear after Jim.

"We're heading back!" Jim seethed, fear clouding the edges of his rage. Mycroft was back at the flat. He and the other subjects had had relatively the same, inconsistent, rate of new memory influx. And they'd left him alone.

* * *

Mycroft moved like Jim and Seb might return at any moment. Clothing was pulled on in layers, just in case his luck went from bad to worse and necessitated sleeping on the streets. A spare duffel bag was found and stuffed with a few more pieces of clothing and what food was left in the kitchen and transportable. He poked around in Sebastian's room and found some of his stored equipment, taking two knives, one of the smaller pistols Seb had trained him with, and a couple of clips.

Mycroft decided just to take the lift down. It didn't matter that the building's security cameras would show a recording of him leaving; as soon as the men returned home, Jim would _know_.

Shouldering the bag and pulling his shirt's hood down over his face, Mycroft slipped into the shadows of the London night. His focus was fixed on 221B, hoping that Sherlock would still be there to help him out of this catastrophe. If anyone would understand, it would be his brother, who _knew_ so much of who and what he was but loved him regardless.

The London Underground carried one more unusual passenger that night. Mycroft's pulse raced every minute he was on board, but neither the other riders nor the staff bothered the young boy, even if he was a strange sight at that hour.

Desperate hope flared in Mycroft as he raced towards Sherlock's home. He wasn't quite able to blink back his tears as he dashed up the steps and started to pound at the door. Mycroft felt terribly, _terribly_ exposed, like the pools of light from the streetlamps weren't quite enough to keep nightmarish enemies away. Even the CC-TV cameras felt cold and forbidding, more of a danger and less of a comfort.

He heard footsteps coming in response to his knocking. One more shred of paranoia gripped him and he pulled out the pistol and unlocked the safety. If Jim had somehow figured things out and set a trap...

The portal opened, light from inside the building spilling out and highlighting a shorter frame than Mycroft was expecting. He stared for a moment up into John Watson's started face. "...please, let me in!"

John closed his mouth. " _Mycroft!_ " The door unlocked and swung open and John was dashing out onto the steps and drawing the boy inside, shutting the door again swiftly behind him. The short man bent down in front of him, eyes searching his face, hands running up his arms and checking him over for injury. "My god Mycroft, what happened to you?" John looked at the gun in confusion, but he was more concerned about the boy.

Mycroft flinched at the touch, cringing especially when the doctor's hands wandered too close to his neck. The light, shy innocence that John remembered was gone, replaced with something too sharp, too knowing, too fearful. "Are you alone? We don't have time for this, I have to find Sherlock!" Mycroft glanced up the stairs, deciding at once that if he couldn't hear Sherlock coming by now, he wasn't in the flat.

"John, listen. I don't know how much time I have, but when it's discovered that I'm gone, at least two very dangerous people are going to come looking for me. Perhaps more, depending on how many they can hire on short notice, and I wouldn't put it past them to be able to hire _a lot_."

John paled perceptibly. "Alright." He stood, quickly running into the flat, dragging Mycroft along behind him by the hand. John grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone and they were back down the stairs within seconds. The doctor apparently did not have to be told twice. He dialed someone, probably Sherlock, while they were out on the street trying to hail a cab, but the line never picked up. "C'mon." John took Mycroft by the arm and walked briskly down the sidewalk in search of transport. Two blocks down they found one, and both climbed in with marginal relief. John thought for a moment when the driver asked for directions. "The Old Admiralty building," he decided finally, then added to Mycroft, "Sherlock said he would be there."

Mycroft remembered the building, if not everything that had gone on there. Things was still spotty, but he remembered enough. "Where I used to work. That makes sense." Moreover, it was a central hub for the government as well as the military. There would be few places that he could get to quickly that would be safer to go.

Mycroft nervously watched the city go by outside the cab, touching his hands to where he'd hidden the gun. Eventually he became too worried that Jim would somehow spot him through the windows and he slid lower, hiding out of view and shivering.

John kept giving him worried glances. The man's eyes lingered on the gun, his nervous fidgeting, and at the marks on his throat. He'd noticed the boy's rigidity at his touch, and John hadn't tried to do it again, but unease was written all over him. He clearly wanted to make sure the boy was physically ok, but didn't dare ask at this point. At the very least he could see Mycroft carried himself well enough, without limited range of motion to indicate a hidden injury.

"Mycroft," John asked softly, "what _happened_?"

The boy's head turned to regard John, his gaze more like his old self but for how completely unsettled he was. When set in a youthful face, the contrast was eerie. "I went onto the fire escape, that night, to get some air. An old enemy had already spotted what had happened to me and was coming to get me anyway, to get a bit of revenge. He decided to keep me instead of killing me."

Mycroft watched John's eyes settle over his neck, indicating he'd seen the marks. If anything, his gaze became colder as he tried to retreat into himself, away from the man's pity and horror. It didn't quite work; he felt fragile, on the verge of breaking, cracks running through all his mental and emotional shields.

John breathed out slowly. He could only be imagining the worst. "We'll get you somewhere safe," he said. John really had one of the most comforting voices. He managed to keep it strong, steady, but soft and easy all the same. It was a miracle he and Sherlock got on. "I can check you out when we get there, or if you have a medical staff that you'd prefer we can call them. We don't have to take you to a hospital if you don't want to go, especially under the circumstances." John at least seemed to understand that Mycroft was more like himself now, not the adolescent he had been when he'd left.

"No more hospitals," Mycroft whispered, looking even more haunted. It was too soon to think about that. "They kept... bringing me back, trying to figure out how much I'd remembered and how to stop it, so they could keep-" His jaw closed with a click as memories washed over him. _Bloody hands and an examination table. Sex in the mortuary storeroom. Being pinned down to the couch. Fearing for his life in the back of a van. His former colleague bleeding out in a spatter of gore. Shooting a man in an alleyway. The manic gleam in Jim's eyes when he declared that he wasn't ever going to let Mycroft go._

The boy's breathing sped up again. "I don't want anyone else to look."

John drew in a silent breath. "Ok," he nodded. "Ok. It'll just be me. We'll have to tell Sherlock, but that's it."

They were approaching their destination, a sprawling red and white mass of British history, imposing even from the street with its breadth. The cab dropped them on the corner, and John took Mycroft's hand, squeezing it tightly, and quickly made for the entrance.

Mycroft's heart was still racing. He remembered enough now to know where snipers would sit, how to analyze his surroundings for the most likely location for an ambush. His guard only dropped slightly once they made their way inside.

Mycroft hadn't expected to be recognized at his current age, but the the staff manning the entryway all turned to stare at him in morbid fascination. "Oh my god," one of the guards breathed, the first to shake herself out of her shocked surprise. "Mr. Holmes, we weren't certain we were ever going to see you again."

Mycroft couldn't put a name to the face. He gave her a dry, flat smile. "I'm told my brother is here filling in for me. We'll need security access for myself and Dr. John Watson here. He'll be accompanying me."

John looked from one to the other, no doubt still have a little trouble getting over Mycroft knowing what he was doing for his small size, but his gaze settled on the woman expectantly in the end.

She cleared her throat. "Right, of course." She went behind a desk and brought back two badges for each of them, "I'll take you to him."

They followed her down the expansive hall, swiping their badges at the end and leaving the public space.

Their group drew more stares as they wound their way through the complex towards a secure lift. Mycroft ignored the eyes that turned to watch their progress, but it was just one more irritant. These people all knew who he was - he could tell as much from their body language, the way they looked for longer than they would if he'd simply been an unknown child. His back became more and more rigid as they walked.

Mycroft and John stepped into the lift after their escort. This much, the boy could remember, swiping his ID badge and pushing the button that would take them to the restricted area in the deep basement levels of the building. Steel doors slid shut and sealed with a hiss and they began to move downward.

John and the woman remained respectfully quiet, neither quite knowing what to say nor whom the other was. John didn't try to hold Mycroft's hand anymore, yet another subtle sign that he was beginning to think of the boy as the adult he once was, at least in the presence of his former coworkers and out of danger. It was likely that once they were outside again, John would be just as protective as he'd been on the way. It was simply part of his nature.

The lift chimed, the doors slid open, and they stepped forward as one.

Mycroft recognized their surroundings much better now. He moved confidently down the hall that he knew as well as his own home - he had spent more time in these hallways and rooms over the past years than he had at his home proper, sleeping on the premises when there was the need.

The stares were more intense here. These were people who knew Mycroft not just in passing or by reputation, but who worked directly with or underneath him. He could recognize a few of the older faces. One younger man laughed nervously as they passed, quickly shushed by a coworker. Mycroft made a note of his face and kept moving.

They passed through a control room that led into a massive data center. Mycroft heard John's sharp intake of breath beside him as the scenery transformed into something from a Bond movie. Multiple computers were networked together into one massive system that filled the sizeable room. Panels and panels of screens filled the walls and several desks scattered throughout the space, displaying everything from satellite feeds and foreign news to raw coding and data.

Sherlock was speaking with a diminutive, sharply dressed woman when Mycroft and John reached the bottom of the stairs. They turned as one, both of their faces going slack with shock and relief. Both of them rushed over, and Mycroft got a surprise in return when the woman stooped and tearfully enfolded him in a hug. "Oh god, we were so worried about you."

John was just as perplexed and looked to Sherlock for explanation, but the detective was too awestruck over his brother's reappearance to respond.

"Doesn't sound like it's quite over yet," John spoke up for the boy. "Sherlock, is there…maybe somewhere we can go, somewhere out of the way and he can explain what's happened? I've only just caught the gist of it."

The doctor was thinking of Mycroft's comfort again. John must have been able to tell he was on edge and wary of his surroundings, likely because of how upset he'd been when John had found him.

"Ms. Shelford, I'm alright. Please let go of me," Mycroft said, voice strained with discomfort. He could remember Katherine Shelford, enough to recall pieces of their odd relationship that approximated friendship. "I need to speak with my brother. We'll talk later if time permits."

"It's Kat, sir. How many times do I have to tell you to-... fuck." Shelford released Mycroft and stood, sheepishly crossing her arms. "You still sound like yourself, even if you don't look it. Sorry sir. I just got a little choked up about everything."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at her declaration, and she laughed. "Dismissed. Got it, sir. I'll hold down the fort while you take care of business," she said, then beat a hasty retreat for one of the monitor stations.

"...Sherlock, side conference room," Mycroft sighed and led the way, taking them back up the stairs and down the hallway to a room that looked fit for a security briefing.

They filed in and John got the door behind them, not wanting to be bothered by staff walking by or any interruptions from the outside world.

The two brothers both looked drawn. Sherlock was visibly holding back questions and a great amount of emotion that only the other two occupants of the room could detect.

"I found him on our doorstep not thirty minutes ago," John broke the silence. "Seems he was kidnapped after all." The doctor took one of the chairs, but rolled it closer to Mycroft, trying to get the boy to sit down across from him. John leveled him with a look. "Are you hurt anywhere…?" He wanted to know if Mycroft needed attention for any injury he couldn't visibly see, and finally he got the chance to ask.

Mycroft started to sit, thought better of it, and straightened with shuttered look in his eyes. "I'll be fine," he said quietly, trying to neatly sidestep the question. "What's important is that, now that I've escaped, James Moriarty is going to turn his attention away from his other projects to try to tear Britain apart looking for me."

"So it _was_ him," Sherlock interrupted. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Mycroft - he hadn't missed his brother's unusual refusal of a seat, and he knew too much about the history between Mycroft and Moriarty, such as it was. "So revenge, then."

"It started out that way, before he decided to switch his focus from you to me. Which was the only thing that spared my life, in all likelihood." Mycroft didn't care for the way Sherlock's eyes were measuring him, slipping past his guard to read what was being left unsaid.

The boy didn't react quickly enough when Sherlock suddenly closed the distance between them. Slender fingers pulled at Mycroft's collar and exposed two of the bite marks. He heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath and closed his burning eyes against the overwhelming shame and anger.

John's gaze darted between them in a slight panic. He'd almost tried to stop Sherlock once he realized what the man was about to do, but John had gone pale at the name of the criminal, his hands clasped on the arms of his chair. The two brothers were locked like that for a moment, hanging in time.

"My god, Mycroft," John said under his breath. " _Moriarty_?"

Mycroft's careful reserve shattered. His face screwed up in pain before Sherlock wrapped himself around his brother's smaller form, shielding him from view, _knowing_ Mycroft didn't want to be seen like this. Sherlock himself looked torn between grief and rage.

"He did this to you to get to me. You were never his original target. I shouldn't have-"

"I would have gotten involved whether you wanted it or _not_ , Sherlock. I was a target because of my work, because of my previous interactions with him, because I'm related to you, and because ending up like this put me within the boundaries of the man's tastes. It is _not_ your fault!"

John could only sit back and watch with dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. He tried not to imagine what Mycroft had just gone through. Sherlock had gone back and forth from blaming his brother to blaming himself, even blaming John, for _days_ , frustrated beyond reason at the trail going cold. And now to find out that not only had their suspicions been correct, but even more abhorrent than they'd imagined, seemed to be too much for Sherlock. For both brothers.

John searched desperately for an out. "...Mycroft, how did you escape?"

"Moriarty went to check on another project of his. He kidnapped everyone else who was present for the accident in order to understand what had happened. He wanted test subjects for a prototype compound to stop memories from resurfacing. I got left alone at the wrong moment and made a run for it before Moriarty or any of his people could come back to check on me."

Mycroft shivered in Sherlock's arms. His brother was attempting to be comforting and protective, but all he was doing was reminding him of the men Mycroft had just escaped - the way they had wrapped their much-larger bodies around him. "Sherlock, let go of me."

Sherlock heard, rather than saw, the minute difference in Mycroft's tone. A flicker of understanding passed through his eyes and he reluctantly released the boy. "I find it hard to believe that Moriarty would leave you so unattended," he ventured. There was more that Mycroft wasn't telling them, the detective was sure of it.

"Wh—?" John looked at Sherlock, question falling silent on his lips. He caught the pointed note in Sherlock’s voice, but he hadn't caught on to what part of Mycroft’s story had provoked it. To John, it sounded entirely plausible that Moriarty would not have considered a boy, even Mycroft, capable of escaping his clutches, even if Moriarty had left him.

But this also confirmed their other theory, one that had only further called James Moriarty into suspicion - the disappearance of the entire team of Mycroft's peers.

The brothers locked gazes, engaging in one of those wordless exchanges that John had seen a couple of times before. Sherlock refused to back down and look away, and Mycroft's jaw clenched in frustration.

"Pains were taken to encourage me to not want to leave," was all Mycroft offered. For such an innocuous statement, Sherlock looked more alarmed than seemed to be merited. The detective's head tilted in question, fear filtering into his eyes when Mycroft nodded minutely. "Moriarty gambled on finishing his project before I recovered my senses enough to know what was going on and leave. He lost."

John looked between one and the other, trying to decipher their unspoken understanding. "So basically, he was trying to brainwash you?" John caught onto the gist of it, but couldn't possibly know how Moriarty had tried to accomplish it. He had no idea what methods the man might have used to lure Mycroft in, to try to get under his skin and comply willingly. It left John a little confused as to what the criminal's end game would have been, apart from flaunting Mycroft's capture in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth settled into a grim line as Mycroft turned back to regard John. "More or less. Moriarty decided he enjoyed my company and my skills far more than anything else he could have done to me, and a chance to keep them, under the right circumstances. Children and teenagers are far easier to manipulate than they like to believe."

"Given what you've said, our first priority is ensuring your safety, and your recovery." Sherlock stared at a distant point, the same look he sometimes adopted when sorting through the data in his head. "Then deducing if, and where, retaliatory strikes may occur if he can't reach you directly. Do you happen to know anything about the others who were kidnapped?"

"No. I didn't see them, and I don't know where Moriarty is having them held. They may not even be alive, at this point."

John wallowed at that and ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. "We can't keep you at Baker Street, it'd be too easy for him to get in, even with help from the Met. What about here? Or, or your own house? When we talked about it before you said something about having too much security that even you didn't remember how to get past?"

If Moriarty was coming back for Mycroft, and the boy sounded certain he would, then nothing short of the Holmes brothers working together could possibly stop him, no matter how impenetrable the walls were around them.

Mycroft paused to consider, taking a quick inventory of what he could remember. He had one chilling moment where a hazy recollection collided with his last few days, finally drawing a connection between a disciplined and disappeared colonel he'd heard about in the distant past and the bodyguard who'd taken such considerate care of him. "Moriarty has as much of a network as I do. The fewer people there are around, the less likely one of them will be an operative. Or coerced into being one."

The boy's mouth twisted into an unhappy line. "My house would be the most secure. Moriarty has too many contacts in the military and intelligence communities for it to be truly safe here."

" _Fuck_ ," John whispered, glancing to the door. He could see the same sentiments cross Sherlock's eyes. They might be able to get Lestrade and a few other trusted members of the Met or Mycroft's intelligence team on watch, but John doubted many. Sherlock would either want to keep them totally isolated and hidden, or have backup quickly on hand but not in plain sight. That still left the matter of actually _stopping_ Moriarty. John turned his tentatively hopeful gaze to Sherlock. "What can we do?"

"From conversations with your coworkers, I've gathered that you have a hook up at your home to the systems located here at the very least." When Mycroft nodded, Sherlock continued. "We'll have to start from there. Getting to a defensible position is first priority. We'll work on taking stock of our available resources from there and start formulating a plan of attack."

"Agreed. Both of you should also contact anyone who makes too tempting a target. Sherlock, I know you're particularly fond of Mrs. Hudson, as well as Detective Inspector Lestrade. We can't rule out the possibility that they might get put in the crosshairs for no greater purpose than petty revenge, or a chance to lure you out and use you to get to me. Whatever weaknesses you have, you need to get them protected, _now_."

* * *

Dawn was breaking by the time Jim returned, the night still heavy overhead with the barest rays of sunlight reaching over the horizon. He'd been a statue the entire way back, seething and silent, and Sebastian hadn't dared speak to him, only speeding through the deserted highways as fast as he could manage.

Jim was silent all the way up to the top floor, to their front door, finding it unbolted and pushing it open with barely a touch of the hand. It swung lifelessly on its hinge into an equally lifeless flat.

For one very long moment he stood there, in the threshold of the doorway. He needed no further confirmation to know what had happened, but everything was still coalescing behind his dark eyes. The boy was gone. _Mycroft_ was gone. He had remembered everything, and had done so when Jim wasn't there to catch the fallout. There hadn't even been a chance to try. Jim took one step forward. _He knew this would happen._ Then another. Mycroft had tried to tell him he felt otherwise, but Jim knew. The boy had a whole life of experiences, a whole life of reasons for not allowing himself to become what Jim had become. The wall between that and what he could have been had caved. Jim bent, hunched over, fists clenched. A furious cry gurgled up in his throat and came spilling out of him, echoing through the flat like a howl until he cut it off.

Seething with rage, he whirled on Sebastian, dark and silent waiting in the hall. " _We're finding him, NOW!_ " Jim stalked to the man, whose fists clenched in defense before the smaller man grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him down to Jim's level, nose to nose. " _Get your men together_ , anyone you can. I don't care. Five minutes. We're going to Baker Street. _MOVE._ "

* * *

Lestrade's evening had burst into a flurry of activity after he got the call. Sherlock had been terse but adamant, insisting that Greg take a few of his best officers and immediately extricate his landlady from the premises of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock's voice had belied the suspicion that the man was playing a prank. Galvanized into action, Greg had managed to pull some strings and get a couple of squad cars to accompany him. Sherlock had informed him that they might run into someone truly dangerous, and Greg had taken the detective at his word.

Nothing seemed out of place when Greg's unmarked car pulled over on Baker Street, flanked on either side by his backup. The DI moved briskly up the stairs and rang the doorbell. Eventually he heard a soft patter of footsteps.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door, blinking owlishly at the DI. "Oh, Inspector, now you haven't come to ransack the place again, have you?" she asked and continued before he could get a word out. "If you haven't, then you should know Sherlock's not home. If you have then, well, why don't we agree that if I make you a nice cuppa, then you'll leave the china alone, won't you?" She flashed him a welcoming smile. In spite of how many times he'd performed drugs busts on her tenant, she got on well with Inspector Lestrade.

"Mrs. Hudson, please," Greg spluttered and tried to get a word in edgewise. "You have to come with me. At once, I'm afraid. Sherlock just called me and said that someone may be heading this way. An enemy of his. I'm your safety escort," he explained with an apologetic smile, trying to strike a balance between politeness and the necessities of time.

The woman paused, speechless. "Oh. Oh…well, then." She righted herself and looked behind her. "In that case, let me just get a few things…. Come in, come in, it'll only be a minute." She wandered off to her rooms, drawing the detective reluctantly inside. The sounds of her clattering about echoed down the hall, as she seemed to be debating which items to take and wondering how long she would be gone.

Lestrade hadn't gotten more than two steps through the door before he felt a cold press of metal behind the base of his skull.

" _Keep moving_ ," a voice from behind growled and a large hand shoved him forward.

Lestrade's eyes widened and a chill raced up his spine, but he didn't freeze. His training kicked in, keeping him moving forward smoothly after briefly stumbling from the push. Without a doubt, this was exactly who Sherlock had been warning him about, but he hadn't had time for names and a full explanation.

Greg's breathing quickened with his thoughts. "Easy, easy now."

Gunfire sounded outside and the door was quickly shut behind them. There were more men who'd come in behind them, but Lestrade couldn't tell how many. "Just walk," the voice said. It was deep, and from the man's stance and stride behind him, he was very tall. Someone busted into the room Mrs. Hudson had gone into and there was a small shriek from inside.

" _WHERE IS HE?_ " Another voice sounded and out of nowhere and a smaller figure brushed past the Inspector. Lestrade had never seen James Moriarty, but from the way the dark haired man moved confidently and single-mindedly, commanding the others behind him, this had to be him. He looked more mad than anything else as he ran through the flat and up the stairs to Sherlock's sitting room. The man holding Lestrade followed, and in one swift kick he broke the door in. Moriarty darted inside, rushing from one side to the other, wild eyes moving faster around the room than he could, taking in every detail.

This wasn't Lestrade's first time in a hostage situation, but it was certainly the first with this many gunmen in such a small space. The detective breathed deeply to try to calm and clear his thoughts. Unless he could get a hold on his own situation, he wouldn't be able to help Mrs. Hudson from where she was trapped downstairs.

Greg watched the smaller criminal tear about the rooms, swiftly searching. "Who are you looking for?" he asked. It took considerable effort to keep his voice steady. Worse yet was the way the criminal's crazed, dark eyes fixed on him. The man looked like a rabid dog, one who hadn't slept in several days.

Moriarty stopped suddenly, going completely still right before he launched himself at Lestrade. The man holding him squared his stance, anticipating the move. Moriarty collided with the Inspector, chest to chest, hands twisting in his collar and choking off his air, eyes huge and bloodshot, staring into Lestrade's under the sharp points of furious brows.

"WHERE'S THE KID?" Jim shouted in his face. "MYCROFT. _WHERE IS HE?_ " The man's voice screeched, breaking over the sound of gunfire downstairs. "I know he was here."

Lestrade paled but held his ground. He could only pray that Mrs. Hudson was still safe downstairs. From what he could hear, his backup had caught on to the situation and were beginning to engage Moriarty's men. "I haven't seen him. I wasn't even _told_ whether he was found. Sherlock called me and told me to check on his landlady, that's _it_. Mycroft Holmes isn't here." Greg swallowed, wondering whether Moriarty would be the type to shoot out of frustration, or because he'd proven himself devoid of useful information.

Moriarty stared into him with hard, calculating eyes that narrowed before he let out a scream of rage and backhanded Greg across the face. Blood seeped from the detective's nose and he stayed down, the man behind him holding him fast, but Moriarty whirled when a shot came through the window. A boot kicked through on the other side, shattering the glass. Someone had climbed up the balcony and was coming through. Lestrade was thrown to the ground and the man who had been holding him dove for the small criminal, taking him down and firing a shot into the officer who'd attempted to crawl in. The man _was_ big, blond, clad in dark fatigues, and armed with half a dozen weapons that the DI could see.

"We've got to move!" he shouted and dragged Moriarty to his feet, hauling the dark haired man along with him and kicking Lestrade down onto his back as he tried to rise on their way out.

Lestrade rolled with the kick, curling his shoulders to help redistribute the worst of the impact. By the time he was facing the right direction and got his gun out of his holster, the pair had vanished. Lestrade levered himself upright and cautiously peered around the corner, just catching sight through the kitchen window of a blond head disappearing from view. "THEY'RE AT THE FIRE ESCAPE!" he shouted, running in hot pursuit. Further gunfire reached Greg's ears from outside.

By the time he managed to get onto the metal scaffolding himself, both criminals we gone, leaving behind an officer bleeding out onto the pavement. "Shit." Lestrade's feet couldn't move fast enough. His fingers felt numb as he operated his pocket radio. "This is DI Lestrade, we've got officers down at 221 Baker Street, requesting medical support!"

* * *

It was barely twenty minutes after Sherlock made the call that they received news of the shootout at Baker Street. The department had given Mycroft a phone for him to use in the meanwhile, and they were in a blacked out van en route to his house when it began to vibrate insistently.

John exchanged a glance with Sherlock before the boy picked up the call. They'd been told he'd only be contacted in the case of emergencies.

"Mr. Holmes," the voice on the other end said, "This is Broderick over at Traffic Control and Planning. The situation you'd anticipated broke out at your former location. All parties targeted for protection have been safely accounted for and are in our custody."

A vicious look crossed Mycroft's face before he smoothed it over with careful blankness. "I see. Keep me informed if there are any more developments I should be concerned about. Please arrange for the respective parties to be transported to A15, with full accommodations." Mycroft barely waited for Broderick's affirmative response before he terminated the line.

"Moriarty hit your flat, as predicted. Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade are fine," he added, before Sherlock could open his mouth.

"This is too quick, too out in the open. It's not like Moriarty to stick his neck out and interact directly with a situation." Sherlock's eyes were sharp on his brother's form. After a handful of moments, the pieces slid into place. Everything made sense now. "...he's taking this personally. He's _attached_ to you," Sherlock said with a note of surprise. He didn't miss his brother's minute flinch.

John's brows quickly went from wide to furrowed and his mouth formed a question that died on his tongue. His expression only grew more drawn as Sherlock's statement sank in for him. He began to look vaguely sickened. "He's _mad_." Neither brother moved to react to his seemingly obvious statement, so John slumped back against the side of the car with a hand to his forehead. No doubt his impressions of Moriarty were changing quite rapidly.

"He stopped sleeping and eating to work on a compound he hoped would keep me from regaining the rest of my memories and progressing back to myself. At this point, he may very well be mad and more prone to making a rash, foolish decision."

"But now that he's failed at recapturing you quickly, he may be more cautious," Sherlock pointed out, and Mycroft inclined his head in agreement.

"He'll retreat and try to plot out where I'll run. It will only be a matter of time before he figures out where I am, but at that point it won't matter." If Moriarty could break into his home, there wouldn't be anyplace that would be truly safe to hide. "I'm expecting a variety of tactics, including an all-out assault on the property and attempts to lure me out into surrender by targeting other locations and people."

"What can we do to stop him?" John searched the brothers, each lost in thought. "We'd have to find out where he is…. I mean, we could get everyone he might think is important to you together, but…." Having experienced Moriarty before, John thought again. "If he's looking for a tradeoff, he might just endanger random civilians. How do we catch somebody like that?"

Moriarty wasn't playing a game this time. There were no set rules, no set amount of hours, and no limit to the number of people caught up in the crossfire.

"I need time to think. And work, as I'm assuming you had trouble keeping up with the systems I built," Mycroft replied, shooting Sherlock a pointed look. Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms, displeased that Mycroft had guessed correctly and that he'd had difficulties in the first place. "I don't want to move until I've planned for all contingencies. It may be the only way to catch him is to put out bait he can't refuse."

Sherlock immediately straightened up. "No." Normally, the detective would have agreed readily enough, but Mycroft's kidnapping had broken his illusions of his brother's invulnerability.

"Let's not go there before we have to." John was on board with Sherlock on that one. "We've only just gotten you back," he added pointedly. "And we don't need to be putting you anywhere close to that situation again." John took a steadying breath and fixed Mycroft with his gaze. Mycroft was not delicate, mentally, but he had just gone through a traumatic experience while caught somewhere between being an adult and a child.

Whatever emotionality the boy had displayed at the beginning of his return was gone now. Mycroft's gaze was as dispassionate at John remembered from their first meeting, revealing nothing of his thoughts or feelings. Gone, too, was his childish energy and fidgeting, transformed back into unnatural stillness and formality. His blank stare pinned John, dared him to voice just what he thought _that situation_ had been. "I'm not rushing into any decisions. As I said, I need time to think. If there is a better strategy available, I'll use it."

John closed his mouth and backed down, getting a pointed glance from Sherlock as well. He sighed. "Alright."

Their surroundings had swiftly shifted from one posh neighborhood into the next, climbing in scale until they were in the heart of Kensington. A smattering of trees adorned brick walls and gated houses. Each did have its own distinct character, not simply a replica of the next, although each did seem as remote as the next, pushed back from the street further than usual to accommodate the walls and a small front yard.

The car stopped in front of a house that did not look remarkably different from the others in size or layout. Like the rest of the neighborhood, the building boasted multiple stories, set behind an imposing brick wall for privacy and security. A brass mail slot was set into the gate, along with the numbers 93.

Mycroft's security detail exited the car first, scanning the area before opening the rear doors of the car. Mycroft scooted out after John and walked up to the gate. The boy frowned and, after a moment's consideration, punched in a complicated series of numbers and letters on the access pad beside the gate. It swung open and gave them access to the front yard.

"Sherlock, Doctor Watson, stay close if you would." Mycroft moved swiftly up to the front doorway to interact with another security checkpoint, this one far more detailed. After a few seconds, there were a series of heavy metallic clicks behind the front door. Mycroft opened it a moment later, just in time for Sherlock and John to catch sight of a thick metal panel disappearing on soundless hydraulics.

John shot an uncomfortable glance to the door as they slipped in and it slid shut behind them. When he turned around the first thing he noticed, the most overwhelming thing about the place really, was books. They were everywhere. Shelves were laid out for them in the walls, above the archways of the doors - everywhere they looked the main foyer was made to look like a particularly ornate personal library. John turned. From the paintings on the walls to the carved wooden shelving around them, to the vases set along the hall, Mycroft had a very distinct taste.

Mycroft touched another panel hidden on the wall, and a thrumming noise sounded from somewhere in the basement. Movement caught John and Sherlock's attention, and they watched as thick metal panels came into view and locked over the front door... and every window that they could see, sealing with a hiss. The electric lights brightened to compensate for the loss of natural light.

Mycroft gave them both a shallow smile. "Apologies. Given that I have no idea when Moriarty might find this place and try to enter, I'd rather not take chances. I'm afraid your mobile phones won't work with the full security activated. The landline phones you see in here are secured and should work for anyone you might need to contact."

"Okay…" John said, very quietly. His shoulders had tensed, just noticeably curling into himself at the oppressive atmosphere. The whole place had locked down like a military bunker. No doubt the house was fortified with industrial steel throughout. The amount of construction needed to build something this elaborate on a private scale on a residential street was near unimaginable.

Mycroft's paranoia apparently ran deep, even into adulthood.

"So we'll be staying over for a while, I imagine," John said with an attempted smile, trying to lighten the mood.

"Unfortunately, yes. Both of you would be prime targets for Moriarty to kidnap as bargaining tokens, or kill out of revenge. Neither is acceptable. I do have two guest rooms, and I'll have fresh supplies sent in. As I mentioned, your mobile phones won't work during lockdown, but any of the landline phones you see will have secured outside access should you need to call someone."

Mycroft noticed John's unease and gave him a weak, polite smile that never quite reached his eyes. "I'm afraid that I have to admit that I'm ill-prepared for guests. I've never actually had any before."

John's head swiveled around to stare at him in disbelief. " _Ever_?" John was floored. Sherlock did not look very surprised, but John had to assume that with a home this comfortable, apart from the over the top security system, it would have been the perfect place to entertain guests. He would have asked why had clear impressions of Mycroft's paranoia not reentered his mind. Suddenly he had a very good suspicion of 'why not'. Finally, he came back to himself enough to shut his mouth, which had hung open for a moment in surprise. He'd already been rude enough, but to find out that Mycroft likely lived the life of a complete recluse was a bit of a shock.

Mycroft shrugged, swiftly hiding his hurt from John's stunned reaction. "I was constantly prepared in the event that I would have to entertain an ambassador or two, but alternative arrangements were always made. There were security concerns." Mycroft left the other reasons unsaid - that he was uncomfortable having to keep up a persona non-stop for several days without rest, that he couldn't sleep with strangers on the premises, that his coworkers usually found him eerie despite his best attempts at sociable interactions and likely steered all visiting diplomats away towards a more suitable host.

"Feel free to browse anything in the library, although I'd prefer if you put things back where you found them. If you're interested, I can give you a short tour. If you'd rather decompress, I'll go see to our resupplying."

Sherlock and John looked at each other. They both came to the same conclusion. "Let's just get settled and make sure Moriarty hasn't tried to kidnap any more of our friends." John nodded to Mycroft, finding it unnerving that he was still essentially talking to a child who didn't give off the presence of a child at all. "I'm sure we'll find our way around. _And_ before you take off, I want to make _sure_ you're ok. Physically." John's mouth pressed into a hard line.

John had to watch carefully to notice the reaction that garnered. Mycroft's displeasure at the assertion was well hidden, but for the familiar stubborn set to his mouth that both brothers shared and the brief flicker of fear and shame that passed through his pale eyes. The boy crossed his arms. "I'll be fine. I don't see any need for medical care."

Sherlock's discomfort was more visceral. Clearly he didn't want to confront the evidence of what had happened to Mycroft. "I won't be present, if that's your concern. John is correct; you could simply not have noticed an issue that needs addressing."

"It's a good sign that you don't seem to be in pain," John added, "but I someone needs to make sure. If you really are fine, it'll be quick." It was difficult for John to believe that Mycroft walked away from Moriarty, especially what they _strongly_ suspected Moriarty had done to him, without injury. He softened his gaze and stared levelly at the boy. He knew that Mycroft, all propriety aside, knew why he and Sherlock were insisting. "If you'd prefer someone else, someone you don't know personally, that's fine. It just needs to be done."

Mycroft's stare was arctic, a winteriness created from a lifetime of self-protection. He didn't want to do this at all, but particularly not now. Not when events were so fresh in his mind and he was still processing everything. He hadn't even had time for a thorough washing before he'd come back to himself and fled, which meant there was the added humiliation of the possibility of remaining... evidence.

Still, he knew it should be done. Particularly after the last session he'd been talked into. Mycroft ground his teeth in frustration. "...fine. Sherlock, stay down here," he snapped, walking towards the stairwell. "If you'll follow me, Dr. Watson."

John nodded, slipping into his professional demeanor. He caught Sherlock's eyes before he turned, and the man's gaze told him in no uncertain terms to be careful with his brother.


	18. Chapter 18

John followed Mycroft's diminutive figure up the stairs, lined with antique paintings that fought to catch John's eye even though he was steadfastly focused on his task. Everything about the interior of the house spoke of taste and an air of traditional finery. It was not difficult to imagine Mycroft fitting perfectly with their surroundings. When they came to the master bedroom, John did feel quite like an intruder imposing on the most private spaces of someone else's home, and soon body, someone he had come to more or less trust and view as a friendly face. John had to steel himself and reach for his professional detachment.

"Do you have a first aid kit? Or supplies, anything like that? Towels, cotton swabs…?"

"Doctor Watson, considering what I do for a living, I have more extensive supplies than a few towels and plasters." Mycroft kept his head down as they rounded the corner and went through the walk-in closet, past rows of formal, tailored clothing that no longer fit him. Wouldn't fit him for _years_ yet. The doorway at the other end opened up on a sizeable bathroom. One corner was taken up by a large closet that, when opened, revealed both stored linens and medical supplies that wouldn't be amiss at a hospital. Mycroft stepped back to allow John access.

"Take whatever you think necessary."

John raised his brows and gave his head a shake. "Wow. Ok then." He found an assortment of swabs, clear glass slides, plastic bags, towels, gauze, and disinfectant. When he turned, Mycroft still had his eyes cast somewhere around the floor of the room, staring half into space, but John knew he was paying attention. The man took a seat on the closed lid of the toilet so that he wasn't towering over Mycroft. At that height, they were just about even, with the boy a bit taller. He set aside the supplies. "Alright, I just need you to take off your shirt first. I want to take a look at those bruises."

Mycroft moved robotically, studiously avoiding meeting John's eyes as he stripped his shirt off and draped it over the rim of the tub behind him. Nothing was wrong with his hearing, however, and John's sudden intake of breath made the boy's spine stiffen.

The two bite marks on his neck were the darkest and most visible, but not the only ones. Difference circumferences suggested two different mouths had explored that pale skin. There was a ring of bruises around each forearm that suggested a punishing grip. Others were visible near his waist, trailing down to vanish underneath the fabric of his trousers.

John swallowed, fighting the kneejerk reaction down. He beckoned Mycroft closer with a gesture of his hand until the boy stood before him. John started from his neck and looked over every wound, face carefully schooled once more. "Some of these are very new," he said quietly. "And some aren't." In fact, there were enough variations for him to tell that they had been inflicted in _multiple_ sessions over a period of time. His eyes lingered on the bright red teeth marks at his neck and the nearly equally red bruises at his hips. "How long ago was the last time?"

There was a heartbeat of silence as Mycroft calculated. "Approximately 12 hours ago, give or take 30 minutes." Having a man who was, more or less, a relative stranger peering at the evidence on his skin was making the boy deeply uncomfortable. Even the location didn't help. All Mycroft could think about was the last bath he'd taken in Jim's flat. Or the times when the dark eyed criminal had joined him in the shower...

John's eyes drifted to his in a brief moment of sympathy. His were a dull blue in the light of the bathroom and strikingly sad. A world apart from Jim's. John let his gaze drop after barely a second. "You've taken a bath since then, haven't you?" Mycroft was far too clean. John took one of his hands gently and looked over his fingernails. "I'm going to take a swab from under your nails anyway, just so we can pin this down solid if we ever have to." Though really, with Jim's other crimes in the equation, if they ever caught him, he wouldn't have a chance of walking free.

"Yes." Mention of the bath just made everything worse - remembering the horror of the moment when he'd come to his senses, lungs full of water. And remembering the memories he'd had to relive just before that. It had been a shock to look down and not see the scar that had accompanied him for nearly two decades of his life.

Realizing that John was waiting for his cooperation, Mycroft shook himself out of his reminiscence and placed one hand in John's palm. Even so simple a gesture made his breath hitch, seeing a much larger hand encircling his own.

It was all John could do to hold it as carefully as he could and take a swipe from under each of Mycroft's small nails on toothpicks which he then deposited in the bags he'd found. Once he was finished, he released the boy's hand and folded his own over his knees, as unthreateningly as possible. "Ok. Harder part is next." He leveled Mycroft with a soft but serious gaze, having to look up at him slightly. "I'll need you to take off the rest. But, most importantly, I need you to tell me if anything hurts, anywhere. No matter how uncomfortable. Ok?"

Mycroft's hesitancy and mental dissociation increased visibly at John's words. For a moment the boy was utterly still and glassy-eyed, not even breathing. When he moved again, he was as emotionless as a mannequin. Eerily, it only reminded John of his adult self even more, bringing back memories of terse conversations during visits to 221B, or the way Mycroft's expressions and body language had never quite touched his eyes.

Before, when John had first met him in a random warehouse, Mycroft had seemed surprised that John hadn't been intimidated. The man had had too much of the veneer of a government suit, and his coldness had been read as the insincerity typical of bureaucrats and secret squirrels. Devoid of Seville Row finery and impossibly young, Mycroft's demeanor was now more difficult to explain away.

The boy stripped without further complaint. He no longer even seemed embarrassed at being seen.

John frowned as he watched, more disturbed by the loss of Mycroft's personality than the loss of his clothes. There were light bruises on his thighs, the marks of hands with too strong a grip. John was only thankful he didn't find evidence of rope burns or other restraints.

John locked eyes with Mycroft, even though he appeared not to focus in return very well, just to make sure the boy was prepared before he let his gaze move downward in more than just a glance. John had him turn around, full circle, all performed silently before the doctor finally looked up again.

"Are you in any pain at all?"

"Some minor discomfort, but this would be normal even if I was my former height and mass," Mycroft commented, as if reciting lists of meaningless numbers from a sheet of paper. "As far as I can tell, there are no tears or abrasions. No sharp pain."

The boy finished turning, locking gazes with John again. He offered him a miniscule shrug. "Particular care was taken that I not be damaged, at least in the way you are suggesting. The intent was to keep me there, healthy, permanently. It would have been counterproductive to permit me to be seriously injured."

John let out a shaky breath. At least he was getting a straightforward answer, but Mycroft's detachment was unnerving. "Ok. At this point, that's good news." He swallowed somewhat hesitantly, but bent and picked a long cotton swab from the small pile of utensils he'd collected. Their eyes met again, and John got the impression that though Mycroft gave no outward sign of understanding, he anticipated what John would ask next. "This might be uncomfortable, but I'm going to ask you to use this to see if we can get a sample. I can do it if you'd like," John very much suspected not. "Or I can step out for a moment and let you do it yourself."

"I would much prefer to take the sample myself, if it's all the same to you, Doctor Watson." Mycroft plucked the swab from John's hands without ceremony. "You don't need to explain the procedure. My studies did include a certain amount of forensics and biology." The boy watched as John slowly rose to his feet. "Will that be the end of it? If you aren't going to do any further examinations, I'll redress once that sample is taken." Mycroft felt like his voice should echo more in the empty space, against the cold white porcelain and tile. It would be suitable, if sound rattled around in the room the way his thoughts were in the aching, empty void that had been left behind inside him.

John straightened his shirt, a subtle indication that he was more uncomfortable than was apparent from his tone. "Yes, that'll be all. Normally, we'd want to photograph those bruises, but I can already guess what you'd say to that. Besides," he nodded at the swab in the boy's hand, "I think that's all the hard evidence we'll need." He turned and strode to the door, hesitating a moment and it seemed he might have wanted to say something else, possibly something more poignant, but in the end decided against it and simply nodded once, setting his jaw, before leaving.

Mycroft waited until the door was closed and he heard John move a couple of steps away before he turned his attention to the task at hand. He laid down on the floor, ignoring the chill from the tile - the angle would make the swab less uncomfortable, which was more than an adequate tradeoff as far as Mycroft was concerned.

His mind was elsewhere. Everything was locked away again, compartmentalized, and yet he couldn't stop thinking. Even penetration from a slender, cotton-covered stick triggered memories. Mycroft wondered where Jim and Seb were right now, what they were doing. If Jim had accepted his abandonment as logical and inevitable, or felt some measure of betrayal. What had possessed him to make such a careless open attack on 221 Baker Street, and if there was a way for him to access the CC-TV feeds of the incident.

Mycroft didn't know how he felt about anything. Deep-seated discontent had settled into his bones, along with a measure of paranoia and fear, but he remembered these all as constant companions from before. He sighed and retrieved the swab, then stuck it in the plastic bag John had left by the sink. Evidence. Means by which to ensure Jim's punishment should he ever be foolish enough to get caught. Mycroft felt angry, as he knew he should, but it was a pale ghost compared to what he knew was expected of him.

He dressed efficiently and in silence. No more than a handful of minutes later, he opened the bathroom door, swab sample in hand and scanning for the good Doctor.

John, standing by the foot of his bed, looked up. "All set then," he commented, taking the bag from Mycroft and adding it to the one from his nails. "Good. Thank you." John took a deep breath and let it out.

Mycroft had not regained much of the range of expression that he'd displayed before. He'd been shutting down ever since they'd arrived, but now he'd firmly slotted into an outward semblance of a robot.

It was all John could do not to pry, not to go searching for those tumultuous emotions he knew to exist within the boy. John had seen them on the porch, but it was risky to push him too far too soon. Instead, he resolved to let Mycroft take the lead in this. He wasn't a child anymore, appearance aside. And there would be time. "Let's see what Sherlock's gotten up to, shall we?"

"Probably poking his nose everywhere it doesn't belong, if I know him." Mycroft's words were conversational, framed as a joke, and the corners of his mouth even curved slightly, but something about it fell flat. He accompanied John back down to the main floor in silence but for the creaking of the stairs.

True to Mycroft's prediction, Sherlock was busily inspecting the bookshelves. The detective turned swiftly as he heard them approach. In sharp contrast to Mycroft's current state, Sherlock's emotions had grown closer to the surface since the day of his brother's kidnapping. John had found that he was no longer as cryptic as he once was, even if some of his moods were still puzzling at times. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and, wordlessly, ascertained that there was nothing wrong with him. Physically, at least.

"The Strain? Really, Mycroft, I hadn't thought you the type to still be interested in such things," Sherlock commented, fingering the spine of the novel in question. Testing the waters.

Mycroft blinked, a small bit of surprise and irritation filtering through the robotic veneer. "You weren't paying attention, then. I never lost my taste for the genre."

John frowned. There was something behind their comments that he was missing. "Vampires?" he asked, guessing at the cover of the book when it tipped just barely into view. His eyes darted between the brothers, but they were focused on one another. John raised his eyebrows, but let them carry on. After all, it was the kind of cryptic conversation that they often shared in front of him. He guessed that perhaps Sherlock was attempting to put up a front of normalcy.

"Horror, John," Sherlock intoned, as if it should have been perfectly obvious. "And you still have Doctor Who novellas."

"I rather resent your implication that I became an inhuman workaholic. It isn't as if you cut out all the small pleasures in life for the sake of experiments and The Game," Mycroft pointed out, raising one delicate eyebrow. He didn't even need to elaborate - the comment struck home, deeper than expected. Mycroft's eyes widened slightly as he watched a faint tinge of color wash across his brother's sharp cheekbones. Even more surprising was when Sherlock cleared his throat and showed enough tact to change the subject.

"Yes, well. You didn't give me much of a chance to observe otherwise." Sherlock's tone was quiet, but unresentful. "I'm glad you didn't lose it."

An awkward silence settled as Mycroft stared at his brother like he'd grown a second head. The boy had enough on his plate without having to process his brother's small but significant change in persona as well. "...I'm going to see to the supplies," Mycroft finally said. He didn't wait for a response, beating a hasty retreat down the stairwell.

It wasn't until he left that John turned to stare at Sherlock questioningly. "Ok, what was that all about?" The short doctor stepped closer and joined Sherlock by the bookcase, both hemming him in against it and drawing near enough that Mycroft wouldn't overhear. One look at John's face told Sherlock that he didn't believe they were just reminiscing over childhood games. At other times, he might have let the peculiar conversation go with only a snarky aside, but circumstances were different this time. This time, he was concerned for Mycroft's well-being.

Sherlock glanced towards the stairwell once more, ascertaining that they were alone. When he answered his voice was quiet. "He's locked himself away again." When this failed to be sufficient explanation for John, Sherlock was left grappling for the right words to convey the full complexity of the situation. "Mycroft became a different person almost overnight in his early twenties. He stopped being who he was and started being what our mother preferred him to be, and when it happened he stopped indulging in all of his old interests. Or at least visibly."

The furrow of John's brows only deepened. He crossed his arms and rested his weight on his good leg, cocking his head at Sherlock. The younger Holmes wasn't getting by with such an explanation so easily. "And what, exactly, caused this sudden change?" John didn't want to pry, exactly, and though he couldn't fathom why, whatever it was, it was creating some kind of focal point for the brothers at a very unusual time. "Something snapped him out of a fantasy obsession and made him turn into a proper English gentleman?" John raised a brow, intentionally prodding Sherlock.

Sherlock gave John an uneasy flicker of a smile. "You have to understand, our mother was quite... traditional. We both rebelled, Mycroft more strongly, I think because of the expectations put upon him, being the eldest." Sherlock found it strange to actually relate this series of events in words - somehow, it provided greater clarity than he'd seen before. More than he'd seen at the time, at least. "He was actually a bit of a punk, once, and generated a high level of resentment for choosing to date men. Mycroft never told me exactly what happened, but there was a boy he was dating for a couple of years."

"Thomas seemed nice enough. He treated me well, more or less. Mycroft was completely smitten with him. Then one morning I woke up to a commotion and found out Mycroft had been taken to the hospital. Thomas had been a rather ingenious assassin who'd been hired for the long term. I suppose he thought the ruse had gone on long enough and he'd gained enough trust to fulfill his mission, but he missed my brother's heart. My mother's security took care of the rest, but afterwards Mycroft just stopped fighting. Like he was admitting my mother had been right all along, so he just... stopped existing and became what she wanted." Sherlock frowned in remembrance. "It felt like betrayal. I didn't understand it, and I started to hate him for it, because... Because he wasn't my brother anymore, I suppose. I didn't have an ally anymore, I had another person trying to get me to comply."

John's jaw slackened. He let out a slow breath, staring at Sherlock staring back at him. The doctor shook his head slowly. "I can barely imagine him any other way." He gave Sherlock a disbelieving look. "All that…turned him around completely?" John had never known Mrs. Holmes, but from the bits and pieces he'd gathered, she was every bit as difficult as Mycroft and Sherlock combined. Combining her with the betrayal, not just a betrayal of passion, but scheming betrayal from a lover that started from the very first moment they had met, and John could begin to see where Mycroft's extreme paranoia came from.

"I have pictures, back at the flat. I'm willing to bet Mycroft also has some hidden away here, as he never seems to get rid of family mementos." Sherlock eyed the bookcases around them speculatively for a second. "I... It's strange. I didn't understand why he would react that way at the time. I took it personally."

"You might not believe it without photographic evidence, but before the attack, Mycroft didn't make a habit of conforming to a formal dress code. Not without a fight. We had pickpocket competitions for who could steal the most interesting objects. There was eyeliner and band shirts and spiked blond hair." Sherlock watched in vague amusement as John's jaw dropped again. "When he was fully recovered, he was more or less as when you first met him, if much younger and in a less powerful position."

John shook his head while his eyebrows rose. "No…slipping into his old ways years later? No…more boyfriends? Nothing?" John looked down to the book Sherlock's finger had touched earlier and wondered whether nothing but books had survived. He wondered whether Mycroft had allowed himself to want anything, really want _anything at all_ since then. If anyone would know, it would have been Sherlock. And Sherlock obviously hadn't.

The hall was silent where the boy had disappeared.

"Not that I was aware of. Although-" Sherlock cut himself off abruptly, gaze drifting towards the stairwell. "To my knowledge, the only thing remotely close to his previous interests would be aspects of his work. He did always enjoy a sense of control and experimenting with technology, and playing with psychology. His co-workers were less than subtle in questioning whether I had the same skills when I was filling in for him."

John nodded slowly. It made sense that if it was his only outlet. Mycroft would have buried himself in his work. The doctor sighed and crossed his arms, thinking of how Mycroft had been taken advantage of again at such a vulnerable time. He'd been lucky to get away from Moriarty alive, but all his paranoia, all his restraint, hadn't been able to save him.

John would have asked if Sherlock thought his brother could come out of this intact, but he knew the question was impossible to answer. He took a breath and set his jaw.

"Let's just get through this one step at a time."

Sherlock nodded, eyes on the stairs again. "John, I know this might seem counterintuitive, but despite my brother's current attitude, he's going to be exceedingly angry. You might not be able to read the signs until you say or do the wrong thing. You normally have a delicate hand, but I'd like you to exercise additional caution. He does have a snapping point, and we're locked in here together. If he does lose his temper, I'd prefer it to be with me, as he'll show me more restraint." Sherlock's hands clenched just considering the possibility.

John looked at Sherlock suspiciously. He pursed his lips. He could see why Mycroft would be angry, being thrust into the clutches of Moriarty, completely out of his control and without his memory. Mycroft would have probably been terrified, but now that he had _some_ control over his life again, yes, John could understand if he were angry, but… "…restraint? I'm not a wilting flower, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down at John, silent for a long moment as he weighed the danger of indiscretion against the danger of letting John continue blindly, possibly stumbling in a way that would have dire consequences. The detective couldn't bear the thought of losing either Mycroft or John. Angry as he'd been with the doctor over Mycroft's disappearance, he was extraordinarily fond of him in other circumstances.

"John, there is a distinct possibility that he could physically attack you should you push him too far. Mycroft feels protective of me, so the consequences would not be as extreme if I mistakenly provoked him. I would merely get hurt."

John's stare was blank, the words slow to sink in. _I would merely get hurt._ John straightened and focused his full attention on the taller man. "Sherlock, are you saying that Mycroft would honestly attempt to kill me if I set him off?" Probably in a fit of rage. It was obvious then, that Sherlock did not think Mycroft was stable, no matter how restrained he appeared outwardly.

"He is more than capable of doing that or worse, despite his current physical age." Sherlock's shoulder blades itched. He didn't want to be having this conversation, least of all while his brother was downstairs, but John needed to know the possible consequences of his actions in order to temper his behavior accordingly. "He has always demonstrated restraint regarding people, but I am uncertain how far his boundaries have been pushed by recent trauma, or if he'll have the energy and focus necessary to moderate his own behavior."

John's expression grew more serious at that. Sherlock seemed to indicate that this sort of thing was, and perhaps always had been, a facet of Mycroft's. The detective was equally serious in return, his brows low and drawn over sharp eyes. There was a tightness to his frame that John recognized with feeling cornered, but ready to battle on anyway. John felt the apprehension Sherlock was projecting seep into his own chest, not sure what to do with it. John had seen no evidence of these things in Sherlock's brother, but he would take the warning and keep it in the back of his mind.

"Okay," the doctor nodded with a dour expression.

A flicker of relief tinged Sherlock's features. "Thank you, John." His warning should, hopefully, suffice, and he was particularly grateful that John hadn't pushed for more details. It was enough that he'd said this much.

Silence fell between them. The lack of sound was somehow amplified by the largeness and formal tone of the house, lending it an oppressive weight that had never been present in their flat. Or perhaps it was due to the lack of natural light, blocked completely by the metal panels along with the rest of the outside world. "Perhaps we should go check on him."

"Yeah, I think so." John tried to shrug off the weight of their conversation before they headed for the stairs, like it was a physical presence over his shoulders. They descended lightly and came upon a large kitchen, still traditionally furnished but with distinctly modern appliances, everything perfectly in its place. Off to the side it led into a dining room.

Mycroft, however, was nowhere to be seen. Even Sherlock looked puzzled.

"Mycroft?" John called, peering through the dining room and finding only a patio door blocked off and sealed by security panels.

There was no possible way that Mycroft had snuck past them. Sherlock was certain he would have noticed footsteps on the stairs, which meant there was more to this level than met the eye. He shook his head as John looked toward the patio doorway. "He wouldn't have gone outside right now, even if the grounds around the house are secure."

There was one other doorway beside one of the kitchen sinks. Sherlock opened it, only to be met with a small lavatory... and another doorway formed from heavy-duty steel. The handle turned, and Sherlock gained a view of a space that combined Mycroft's intelligence work with a panic room. Mycroft turned in his chair as the door opened and slid a pair of headphones off of his ears. "...yes? Did you need something?"

John's head poked in after Sherlock's. He looked around and his eyes went wide. "Just ah, wondering where you were… Whoa." The wall was lined with monitors; some of them split into security feeds, both on the premises and off, possibly tapping into the CCTV network. There was a server tower nestled in a corner, and power lines running along the floor in a great bundle. There was even a solid pipe on the ceiling that looked like it might have been its own ventilation system, separate from the rest of the house.

"I've reordered supplies, given that my absence has allowed some things to spoil and I didn't plan to have extra stock for two other people. We should still have plenty to work with before they arrive. I'll be spending most of my time in here catching up on work and gathering what's needed to strategize our next moves, so I would appreciate if one of you would take charge of the cooking." Sherlock turned to regard John without any hesitation, clearly having decided that he was better suited to the task.

"Well, if that's settled... Sherlock, I'll be delineating some of the extra work that's built up to you. ...don't look at me like that," Mycroft added as Sherlock's expression soured. "You did well enough while I was gone, and your options for staving off boredom in this house will be limited, since you can't leave and I won't have you destroying the kitchen with experiments."

Sherlock opened his mouth to complain, saw Mycroft's expression harden, and thought the better of it. "...fine, but only if you include me in planning the next steps. I won't have you putting all the drudge work on my plate while keeping the interesting things for yourself. You are not the only one who wants to take down Moriarty."

Tension entered Mycroft's frame at the mention of the criminal. "Ah, yes. Revenge for him keeping you entertained, Sherlock? You had seemed very happy when he first started playing the Game with you. I believe you said something about finally having a suitable opponent."

Strain sparked in the air between the two brothers and John drew back fractionally. That comment struck close to home. And if Sherlock countered, the barbs he threw would strike even deeper for Mycroft, considering what Mycroft had just gone through. His statement, in fact, was nothing less than accusatory. And it was true. For Sherlock, it _had_ been a game. Even John had been annoyed with that at the time.

"Either way," John cut in, hoping to bring things back on track, "we all want to take him down. Let us help, if we can."

Mycroft turned his attention to John. "I'll include you both where it's feasible, but neither of you specialize in tactics and strategy. Having you present during the early stages of formulation would be a distraction and a hindrance, rather than a help."

"But you _will_ include us," Sherlock pushed.

"If you actually do as you are asked for once, yes. Whatever course is decided upon, I'll need your assistance to execute it. You're both among the few people I can be certain aren't secretly aligned with Moriarty and aren’t corruptible to that end."

John frowned and glanced to Sherlock. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was pushing because he wanted to be in the thick of it or because he feared for Mycroft's stability, and John wasn't sure which he preferred. All he knew was that, whatever the motivation, it would be better if they had another pair of eyes on the plan. Easier said than done. And he was going to have to play mediator.

"Alright. Let's go over our options with some lunch then." Much as John was ruffled at being relegated to cook and counselor, he had to admit that if he didn't do it, no one would.

Mycroft gave his screens one last glance, then locked the system and rose to his feet. His visitors weren't going to leave him to work on things in peace until he gave a little. "Alright. Sherlock, you'll have to make yourself useful. The shelving was not built with my current height in mind, nor John's, and I do not own a step-stool." Mycroft waited until both men had backed out of the small room before he exited himself, closing and locking the door behind him.

"Most of the pots and pans are kept over there, by the patio door, along with some of the dry goods. The cabinets you see on the other side of the range are actually the refrigerator and freezer. You should find any utensils you need by that sink, with normal cutlery in the small drawers beneath. Dishware and drink ware are in the cabinets above both sinks. Does that suffice?"

John nodded. "That'll be fine." He went scrounging around in the refrigerator, finding and gathering a few things before he had Sherlock reach up for one of the large pots on the shelf. He set about making stew and found a large loaf of bread in one of the cabinets, leaving the brothers to stand in awkward silence behind him while he worked. This…was going to take some adjusting to.

Sherlock was at a loss for what to do now that he had Mycroft back. The detective had been bracing for the worst, and it was a relief not to have to bury his brother, but he'd been unprepared to face an adult in a child's body. Something had changed in Mycroft, more than just the return of most of his faculties and the added trauma of assault. Beneath the anger that he could sense, if not see, was an additional tension that reminded Sherlock more of their childhood than anything from their recent years.

Sherlock stepped closer, only to be met with a sharp look from Mycroft. Sherlock stopped to reconsider his original intent to comfort through touch. Such things had worked with Mycroft's younger mentality, but might now be unwelcome. "Don't push yourself too hard, too quickly. We need to formulate a plan to take Moriarty down, but you also need time to recover."

Mycroft stared at Sherlock like he was a stranger. After a moment, something cracked and the boy began laughing, covering his face with one hand.

John looked over his shoulder from where he stood at the stove, alarmed. Sherlock had paused, standing still over the laughing boy. The sound of it was shrill and it echoed through the room, heightening John's nerves. He didn't see what had set the boy off, couldn't tell whether it was hysterics or whether he actually found something funny about what Sherlock had said, which left the doctor staring, the very picture of a deer caught in the headlights. His mouth formed a question, held back on the tip of his tongue. "What…?"

Sherlock looked equally surprised until he caught on to his brother's thought process. He crossed his arms in a huff, somewhat irritated at the implication of mockery. "Yes, yes. Fine." Speaking the words was actually painful. "You were right, and I understand better now."

"And?" Mycroft's laughter had trailed off enough for him to speak, but he was grinning at Sherlock now.

Sherlock bristled. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "...andI'lltrytodobetterinthefuture," Sherlock mumbled as quietly and quickly as he could, looking every bit the resentful baby brother. "Do you want my help, or not?"

"Certainly. I just didn't picture you falling into mothering behavior."

John blinked. He wondered if he was going to be in for a lot of this, playing the guessing game while the brothers shared a script with a backstory his didn't have. Probably. Definitely. And that was going to severely impede his decision making when he was called upon to keep them in check. "Ok. One of you, explain."

Being the focus of just one of the Holmes brothers was bad enough. Having two sets of grey eyes pin you was deeply unsettling. It gave the distinct impression of being trapped under a spotlight while they peeled back your every defense and exposed the core of you.

Mycroft's amusement was gone. "Our father died when we were relatively young, and our mother was predominantly engaged elsewhere. I acted as a surrogate parent for most of Sherlock's life, and in turn he resisted my efforts as firmly as he was able. His current overtures and attempts to garner my compliance are, thus, highly ironic."

John stood there awkwardly, spoon still raised in one hand. "…oh." The light tone he had gone for fell flat. He swallowed, turned his gaze back to the soup, and stirred it a couple times. Maybe he would just endeavor to stay out of their business for a while.

It was only as he was reaching for the plates and bowls did he realize that Mycroft's outburst, turning the tables on Sherlock, had effectively derailed the point Sherlock was trying to make.

Mycroft leaned against the kitchen island, and the two brothers returned to their silent examination of each other. Normally Sherlock was the first to break from these silent exchanges, but Mycroft was starting to shift uncomfortably. It reminded him too much of how Jim had been able to adopt the same method of communication so easily. Sherlock's darker hair wasn't helping dissipate the comparison.

Mycroft looked away first, and Sherlock frowned at being pushed away. The boy had been thinking something that he didn't want Sherlock to see, which only made the detective want to know more.

John served up the stew in big, steaming bowls with thick slices of bread on the side. "Alright everyone, tuck in."

He pulled up a chair at the island next to Mycroft and settled down. He'd found the stew stored in what looked like homemade jars Mycroft had been keeping in the freezer, and when he took a mouthful of the steaming wild rice, found it to be delicious. It was a small compensation for the stress of their situation, but at least it was something. He never ate this well at home on Baker St.

Mycroft climbed up onto a chair and carefully sat before pulling his own bowl over. They ate in silence, though Sherlock kept sneaking glances at Mycroft and frowning. The boy hadn't said one word about their table mannerisms. Mycroft would never have let the chance to tease him slide unless he was preoccupied with something serious that was taking up the majority of his attention.

Mycroft finally looked up, having sensed Sherlock's gaze. His eyes narrowed. "Perhaps you need to be worried, when all this is over, Sherlock. I might decide to lure your resident chef away."

Even this amount of teasing felt off, and Mycroft broke eye contact quickly. "Just tell me. We'll go somewhere private if you don't want John to hear it," Sherlock said.

John paused, slowly pulling the spoon from his mouth, knowing better than to get between the brothers now, but he couldn't help watching them. They were speaking almost with their eyes, one searching with his immense deductive abilities at the forefront of his senses, the other parrying with well-honed shields before advancing on the other and searching just as deeply.

The doctor took another mouthful of soup. There was no way he could pretend he wasn't paying attention, but he wanted them to know he didn't want to interfere just then.

A few more minutes passed in tense silence, both brothers eating while engaged in an unspoken duel. Lines of frustration appeared on Sherlock's face only to later be matched by the boy as Sherlock persisted in his attempts to pry.

Mycroft finally set down his spoon. "Fine." He slid off the chair, immediately regretting the action, then beckoned for Sherlock to follow him up the stairs. He wasn't going to give the detective the chance to observe the password to the safe room.

John watched them go with a slight sinking feeling in his stomach. Everything in him wanted to follow, but he knew he would have to let them alone at a time like this. Considering the circumstances, it was a miracle that Mycroft was willing to talk to anyone. He may like John on a surface level, and trust him as a doctor, but John knew better than to say the elder Holmes trusted him with the finer details of his innermost thoughts. Especially thoughts concerning his childhood.

He sighed and went back to his soup, hoping that Sherlock's newfound sense of brotherly appreciation would hold strong.

Mycroft led Sherlock up to the third floor and into one of the guest bedrooms, not quite trusting their discussion not to carry. The door was shut behind them before Sherlock rounded on his brother.

"You've been more distracted than usual. I understand that you were ill-treated when in captivity, but-"

"This isn't about that," Mycroft snapped, cutting Sherlock off. The fact that he now had to look up sharply in order to meet Sherlock's gaze was just one more irritant. Sherlock must have been more sensitive than usual, as he blinked and lowered his lanky frame into a crouch.

"Something else that happened, then. This isn't about your physical age." The stares at Mycroft's office and his lessened height had had an effect, of course, but Sherlock wouldn't have thought it would affect Mycroft this deeply.

"I was in Moriarty's care around the same mental period of when you found me in the woods. He picked up on this aspect, encouraged it, and gave me chances to indulge it." Mycroft gritted his teeth as he watched Sherlock go still. "To the end, with humans. It's been days since the last, and I'm already feeling restless. I need to know how you managed to break your chemical dependency."

Sherlock shook himself out of his paralysis and tried to ignore the tendrils of guilt that had twined around his heart. "I wasn't able to stop all in one go. I had to gradually wean myself off, even with the roadblocks you'd thrown in my way. I limited how much I had on the premises and my person, and made it a bother to get around your surveillance and get more."

It didn't need to be stated that he'd slipped back into his habit more than a few times. Mycroft shook his head. "It would be far too easy for me to get more, even in this state. I don't think that technique is going to work, particularly if the idea is to avoid killing anyone else. I doubt even the clients of particular clubs would care to risk themselves and endure attempts to 'wean me off' such things."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath as he considered their options. He knew what Mycroft was capable of, but it had never worried him when they were younger. There were lines that his brother hadn't crossed, and they cared too much for each other for him to ever end up on the wrong end of a knife. Now he was being forced to consider... what? Knowingly letting Mycroft go out and hurt others, possibly kill them, for the sake of his brother's health? It was an idea he couldn't quite accept, giving Mycroft free reign on the populace when his own work involved protecting people from the same fate.

Sherlock moved slowly. There was a fragility to Mycroft now, after this confession - fear of rejection, of what would happen next. He clearly wasn't expecting the embrace he got pulled into. Sherlock could feel the boy's rapid breathing underneath his hands. "What if I helped?" he whispered. "If... You wouldn't go too far, if it was me. And... I know what I'm agreeing to."

"You can't possibly mean that." Mycroft's voice was tinged with misery and his hands clenched against Sherlock's shirt.

"Do you have a better idea?" Mycroft shivered in his arms and shook his head. "It's my own decision. I know you have reservations about hurting me, far more than you do for anyone else. You won't be tempted to keep going."

Mycroft was silent for a minute. Sherlock couldn't see his face, but he could almost hear the gears grinding in Mycroft's head as he considered his offer and tried to think of a viable alternative. He was expecting Mycroft to accept.

He wasn't expecting Mycroft to accept by sinking teeth into his shoulder. Sherlock yelled in surprise and pain before he could stifle the reaction, crawling backwards in vain. The boy just came with him, teeth and all, and the movement only made his trapezius ache all the more. Mycroft pulled back slightly, looking torn between shame, sorrow, and perverse pleasure, red painting his mouth. "It's fine," Sherlock managed. "Just... John will hear. Give me something."

Mycroft nodded in understanding and retreated to fetch a cloth from the bathroom. Sherlock placed it between his teeth and tried not to shiver as Mycroft stroked his face. His brother had never looked at him like this before. Nobody ever had. Sherlock wanted to shut his eyes and found that he couldn't tear his gaze away.

Mycroft waited, tensed until Sherlock gave him a nod to continue. Fingertips pressed down, hard enough to bruise, evoking liquid agony in his veins and bringing tears to both their eyes.

It seemed like hours had passed when Mycroft stopped and wrapped himself around his brother, adding the dampness of tears to the bloodstained patch at his shoulder. Sherlock removed the cloth and turned his head toward the bed stand, where a clock cheerily informed him that he'd endured fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, and his body still wasn't quite convinced that the pain was over, tingling and flushed with the echoes of what he'd just experienced.

Sherlock stroked a hand through Mycroft's hair and, surprisingly, the boy permitted it. "We should get back downstairs. John is going to wonder what's going on."

It was a few more minutes before both brothers could compose themselves enough to return, Sherlock in a borrowed shirt. The garment was too big, but less conspicuous by far than a bloodstain.

They found John in kitchen still, leaning against the counter, one arm around himself, biting the edge of his nail when he looked up at them. It was obvious he'd been pacing, probably worried and trying to decide whether he should go up and interrupt the brothers or whether he should leave them to work through whatever conversation they needed to have. He could have gone back to the reception room, found a more comfortable place to sit, try the telly, but he hadn't.

They were putting a good front for the doctor, faces impassive, the mood lighter between them than when they had left, but John eyed Sherlock's change of clothing suspiciously. He didn't look like he was connecting the dots, even imaginary ones, but still he latched onto the oddness.

"Everything ok?" John asked.

"Fine," Mycroft and Sherlock answered simultaneously, then glanced at one another. Sherlock shrugged, doing his best to hide the stiffness of his muscles as they objected to the movement.

"I trust you didn't find the wait too tedious?" Mycroft asked. "You are quite welcome to use the contents of the house as you will. So long as you keep things relatively quiet and put things back where you found them, I won't object."

"No, it's…it's fine." Something about their behavior sparked apprehension in the back of John's mind, but he couldn't say why. "Probably couldn't sit still long enough anyway." He tried to smile, but it wasn't easy. They were all on edge. John wouldn't be able to distract himself from the situation long enough to relax. All they could do was plan and wait.

Lestrade was going to want to speak with them soon, if he wasn't already trying. They hadn't gotten a knock on the door yet, but it was very possible that the DI simply didn't know where Mycroft lived and couldn't find anyone who could tell the Yard either. Confidential, and all that.

"Sherlock, I'll be in the control room if you need something. I have a number of things to do before we can start to plan. In the meantime, you may want to contact Detective Lestrade and ascertain that he and Mrs. Hudson have both reached safe quarters. Remember to use the landline." With that, Mycroft vanished back through the doorway into the panic room that housed his master computer.

Sherlock watched his brother go, then gestured to John. "Upstairs will be more comfortable."

John nodded and followed. He turned on a few lights as they went, finding that he needed more illumination to feel comfortable, whether literal or metaphorical. John sat on the edge of a sofa carefully, still not quite able to relax, and folded his hands in front of him. He wanted to ask what Mycroft had told Sherlock, but knew whatever they had discussed they had meant for him not to hear. So instead, he found something else. "Do you think he'll be alright?"

Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face, unusually expressive for once. "I hope so. This is different pressure than he's used to dealing with, and without time to rest and recover before dealing with the problems at hand." Sherlock reached for the landline and tugged it into his lap. He already was missing being able to utilize his mobile.

John nodded. He'd expected as much. If, or when, Mycroft broke down, they would know it. Silence drew out while Sherlock dialed. Had they not known, they never would have been able to tell they were in a house in the heart of London on a busy little neighborhood, with neighbors and cars and pedestrians passing by right outside the walls. They were so totally isolated that they may as well have been hundreds of kilometers deep in the wilderness.

It took a few rings for someone to pick up on the other end of the line. All Sherlock could hope was that the DI was still in possession of his phone. "Hello? Is this Lestrade?"

"What? Yes! Sherlock?" Lestrade fumbled with the phone on the other end. " _That_ was Moriarty? We fucking _lost him_ in broad daylight in the middle of Baker Street. He nearly took my head off looking for your brother!" It sounded like Greg was moving quickly, Sherlock could hear the door of a car open and shut and then the sounds of a street. The DI was on foot, possibly back on the hunt.

"Lestrade, listen. You need to go join Mrs. Hudson at a safe location. Moriarty’s been the hand behind a number of crimes I've helped you solve. He's not just the one who kidnapped my brother." Sherlock massaged his shoulder without thinking as he spoke. "Doctor Watson and I are with Mycroft right now, out of his reach. Moriarty may decide to attack you out of frustration, or use you in an attempt to lure us out. You're putting yourself in needless danger right now. He won't be caught by conventional means."

The steady motion of Greg's footsteps beating down the pavement stopped. " _Shit_. We had him, we nearly fucking had him!" Greg was twisting, cursing himself, but he'd heard Sherlock. "Alright," he pulled the phone away from his ear as he shouted to his men, "We've got Mrs. Hudson back at the Yard; I'll be able to work from there. Sherlock, where are you?"

Sherlock considered avoiding the question, then decided it wouldn't matter if Greg knew. "We're at Mycroft's house in Kensington. 93 Bedford Gardens. And before you ask: the house is built like a Cold War bomb shelter and is completely locked down. Moriarty won't be able to get to us, but you won't either, not unless I can convince Mycroft to let you in."

"We're really grasping at straws tracking him here," Greg complained. He was in the car now and they were moving. "Know of any places he might go? We really need to get a statement from your brother, besides. The sooner, the better. Can I come to you?" Lestrade was clearly at his rope's end, fearing with very good reason that they'd lost any chance they had of following Moriarty.

"I can try to talk to him and see if he'll let you in, but I wouldn't count on it. He's working on formulating a plan to catch Moriarty, and he has the means to do it, so I'm not overly concerned if the Met reaches a dead end. We'll find him."

Sherlock glanced toward John, offering him the phone. "I'm going to go see if Mycroft will make a statement over the phone, at least. I doubt he'll let Lestrade in, all things considered, but I can ask."

"Alright." John took the phone as Sherlock stood. "Lestrade?"

"I'm here." The DI didn't sound very happy about being handed off, but at least it was for a reason he was very keen on. "Look, Sherlock may think this is over our heads, but I can assure you that there's no chance in hell I'm giving up and sending everybody home after _that_."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," John rubbed his temple and bit his lip. "But honestly, I don't think you're going to get much out of Mycroft. He's just been through hell." And it was hard enough getting him to share his plans, and the details on what had happened to him, with his own brother. "He seems pretty set on doing this his own way."

Sherlock returned to the lower level, knocking loudly on the metal door before he opened it. Given Mycroft's current state of mind, the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was spook him.

"DI Lestrade is on the phone," he explained when Mycroft shot him a look of annoyance. "He wants to come here, and he also wants a statement from you."

"He's not coming here." Mycroft seemed to consider that to be the end of the discussion, as he turned back towards the screens.

"Pick up the line, at least. He might be mollified if you give him something. Otherwise, I wouldn't put it past him to try to come here anyways and stake out the house."

"You told him where the _house_ was?" Mycroft hissed and rounded on Sherlock.

"It's registered under your name. I always knew where it was, even if I never visited. It wouldn't have taken much to find the address even if I hadn't told him." Sherlock sighed as Mycroft continued to stare at him in irritation. "Give him something, and perhaps he'll listen when I tell him you won't let him in."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and brought his headset back up, then clicked a button to connect to the landline. Sherlock turned, intent on returning to the living room.

"…going to need a safe house for Mrs. Hudson, I mean, if we don't find him _now_ , I can't keep the poor woman at the Yard forever…" Mycroft caught Lestrade in the middle of his conversation with John, it seemed. Lestrade stopped, hearing the dial change. "John?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock informs me that you wished to speak with me. Unfortunately, while I can arrange for you and Mrs. Hudson to be transported to safe quarters with a security detachment, I cannot permit you to join us at our current location." Mycroft's formal tone sounded bizarre when uttered with a child's voice, particularly after the last time Lestrade had seen him in person.

There was a beat of silence, the DI pausing in order to reorient himself mentally to who he was talking to. Understandable when Mycroft's words differed so vastly from the voice that accompanied them. "Mycroft. Alright, just let me get…" there was fumbling, Greg was going for a pen and a pad of paper, "Ok, set. Sherlock tells me Moriarty held you hostage? Where? What happened?"

There was a moment of silence as Mycroft steeled himself. "I was kidnapped from behind 221 Baker Street. I never saw the vehicle. Originally, James Moriarty was intent on a bit of revenge before leaving my dead body for Sherlock to find. This was reassessed when he discovered that I'd lost my memory. He has particular tastes and decided to keep me instead. If you need further details on that matter, I'm certain Doctor Watson will be able to give you his report regarding his examination."

That he hadn't thought all scenarios through was only a testament to how shaken Mycroft still was. It occurred to him, even as he was on the line with Lestrade, just what pitfalls lay in store should Moriarty be caught and give full testimony in court.

Lestrade was silent on the other end of the phone. What Mycroft was alluding to just sank in, leaving him momentarily speechless. " _Jesus_ …. Alright," shuffling, Greg must have rubbed a hand against his eyes, like he were trying to scrub those events from his imagination, "Let's…let's focus on the where and how for now. We've got more than enough to bring him in or take him out when we do find him. We'll talk about the rest when we can talk in person, not gonna make you do that over the phone. Do you remember where he took you? Are there any places he went often? Any names you remember, associates, partners, anything?"

"Unfortunately, no. He didn't trust me until he thought I was suitably brainwashed to stay of my own volition, but we moved a lot. It was difficult to tell precisely where the rooms were. Cars were switched. We were on an aeroplane twice. Obviously we returned to England at one point. I was taken to a clinic when it became apparent that I had regained some of my memories, in order for Moriarty to have me scanned. The doctor on call was Nguyen. From the building layout, I'm guessing that it was The London Brain Centre inside The Wellington."

"That's a start. Good." Greg sighed into the phone. "John told me why your brother hasn't been returning my calls. I'll call this line when I've got an update for you. Looks like The Wellington will be the Met's next stop. And before you say anything, Sherlock's notified me of my position as a 'person of interest' when Moriarty changes tactics. If I can, I'll work from the Yard…. but I'm not going to make promises. I do have a job to do."

"You're not going to be able to catch Moriarty, Detective Inspector." Mycroft's voice had suddenly turned chilly. Greg was trying his patience, between his request for a statement and his outright disobedience. "You are making my job infinitely more complicated by needlessly running around, accomplishing nothing while painting a target on your back. Moriarty is likely to be the most dangerous criminal you will ever encounter, and it is well within his means to abduct or assassinate you on a whim, even if you are in the heart of Scotland Yard. I do not want to be put into a position where I am forced to make a call that will determine whether you live or die. Do I make myself clear?"

Greg clenched his teeth and sighed through the phone, and Mycroft could see his expression perfectly. It was one he often wore when he was backed into a corner. "I'll do my best," he bit out, "but I didn't sign up for the job to sit at a desk. If they need me out there, I'm going."

"That is your decision, even if it is a foolish one." There was a beat of silence, and Mycroft sighed. "I would greatly prefer that you stay out of harm's way until I have formulated a plan. If you wish to participate, I will include you in the teams involved in the operation, but until that time there is nothing you can do. Do not deprive the Met of its most promising and valuable detective merely because you are feeling restless."

Lestrade paused again, this time thrown at Mycroft's…frankness. "I…alright. We'll need your help on this anyway," Greg wasn't above admitting that, more than many Met detectives would have done, "but if I _have to_ , I'm going in." He sighed. "You take care yourself, alright?"

"I intend to. Goodbye, Detective Inspector." A click signaled Mycroft's disconnection from the line. The boy sighed once more and turned back to the task at hand.

Upstairs, Sherlock had rejoined John in the reception room. It was as still and silent as ever, and John nearly found himself wishing for the distraction of Sherlock's violin. Annoying as it did tend to become, it would at least keep the man occupied. John, too. Instead, they sat in silence, each worrying over Mycroft and wondering how they would get on over the next few days.

John could almost see Sherlock calling up memories of his brother, analyzing them and discarding them, only to call up another in its place. The doctor imagined he was getting better at observing the subtle mechanics of Sherlock's mind palace, with enough context.

Minutes stretched on, and Sherlock paused in his search to stare blankly at the wall of tomes lining the opposite side of the room. It was not beneath Sherlock to admit that he didn't know what to do, at least to himself. Had it been anyone but his brother, Sherlock wouldn't have hesitated in forging ahead anyway, choosing experimentation and trial by fire. Mycroft was already on the verge of breaking, though - that he had confessed, asked for help at all, and Sherlock had _given_ him that sort of help, put into perspective just how close to the edge Mycroft really was.

Sherlock had seen the effects of psychological trauma in other victims over the years he'd worked with the Met, but never with someone this close to home. The detective rubbed his shoulder again and frowned.

"John, I know you are primarily a medical doctor with some experience in surgery, but I should imagine that the army provided a few courses on basic human psychology and treating trauma. I am open to any suggestions you might have on how we should proceed."

John sighed. He turned sad eyes on Sherlock. "Right now, he needs to feel _safe_ , needs to feel like the danger is far behind him and can't come back and snatch him up at any moment." John huffed a breath at the irony - 'safe' with Moriarty running loose out there, trapping them in Mycroft's own home, planning and waiting to attack at the first opportunity. "After that, a lot of this is going to depend on him. He might have nightmares. PTSD…" John bit his lip, "He might find himself thinking of it over and over and over again, coming up with ways it could have gone differently every time, or picking apart every minute detail and trying to understand what it meant and why it happened. The thing is, you can't stop. Your mind goes there, all the time, awake, asleep, and your body goes on autopilot. He might be able to hide it better than I could." John shrugged. "The best thing we can do is be there for him, comfort him, try to make him feel safe and know that he's not alone."

In other words, more of what he was already attempting. Sherlock sighed and nodded. The decision was already made, just as Sherlock imagined it had been when he had been in trouble and Mycroft had fished him up from rock bottom: they were all they had. Short of death, both of them would do whatever was necessary to help the other.

"...it's a bit ironic." Sherlock's words broke the oppressive silence and surprised even him, more so when he found he couldn't quite stop. Didn't _want_ to stop. "He did something similar for me, when I was younger, and yet I'm having such a difficult time trying to piece together how to reciprocate. I was present," he continued. "At the time, when my father was murdered. And the assassins were looking for me next. I hid and couldn't move, no matter that I heard people calling and looking for me. Mycroft was the one who found me. We knew each other well enough that he knew where I'd go to hide."

John wondered if Sherlock felt that bond had remained over the years. Surely Mycroft's constant watch on him ever since John had known him proved that it went at least one way.

"What do _you_ think he's feeling right now?" John asked. John had experience with trauma, his own. He had the stories from other former soldiers he'd gone to group therapy with. But Sherlock and Mycroft, although human, operated on a different level than he did and often had unusual reactions, or an entire lack of reaction to things, that John found baffling.

"He's locked himself away again, which really just means he's attempted to shut down or bottle himself up because he feels that certain tasks need to get done and that he's afraid of what might happen if he let himself fully react. We're only interacting with the surfacemost level, for the most part." Or John was, at least. Mycroft's interactions with him earlier proved that he wasn't able to seal himself away quite as well as he wanted.

"Betrayal, obviously, but he blames himself for the majority of what happened. Full of anger. He's focused on Moriarty for the moment, as that is a logical and socially acceptable reaction, but he's also torn with the desire to lash out randomly, or at himself. Expression through hurting others. Telling him that it isn't his fault won't change anything," he added. "I'm certain that he knows, logically, that he would have been physically incapable of fighting back, and that he was in a position where it was easy to be manipulated. Emotional responses don't follow the rules of logic."

John rubbed at his temple. This was all the more reason they needed to be there. When Mycroft was thinking those things, someone needed to be around. "He might not want us there all the time, and there might not be anything we can say… but, I think it would be good for him just to have someone nearby when his mind goes back to those dark places. For distraction, for support, for…anything, really."

Neither of them could predict how this would go with Mycroft, but in John's experience, the only thing that really lessened the pain, the powerlessness, was time.

"I know." Sherlock's mind drifted to their earlier encounter. It hadn't been pleasant for him, nor for Mycroft on some levels, but he'd noticed a marked difference in his brother after he'd had a chance to release a bit of what he'd bottled up. "We've... talked a bit, about that. He knows he can come and get me if things get too overwhelming, and I'll do what I can. He feels safer trusting me with such things."

John nodded slowly. He still wondered what had transpired between them when they'd been alone, but it wasn't his place to ask. Most of this would be on Sherlock, and that meant Mycroft's frustrations, as Sherlock had fortunately already been aware of enough to warn John about, would also be directed on Sherlock.

"If you need help, you can call on me too." John tried to meet his gaze, but Sherlock was a bit distant. The Holmes brothers were frustratingly secretive and kept their business to themselves, even when it was obvious one of them needed help. "I'll do anything I can."

Sherlock nodded, still distracted. "I may need to do so. I'm not certain yet." If what they'd done wasn't enough and needed to be escalated, Sherlock might very well need additional counseling, even medical treatment. The latter would unfortunately require that John be brought into the circle of trust, and Sherlock wasn't yet certain how the doctor would react to the situation.

"It... occurs to me that I haven't been the best... _friend_ ," Sherlock said, trying out the word on his tongue. "Since this began. I blamed you for Mycroft's disappearance and behaved accordingly. This was, perhaps, unfair."

John's eyes widened. He had not been expecting Sherlock to admit that. Usually when the detective wanted to admit he was wrong, he simply didn't bring it up again and they shared in the silent knowledge that Sherlock knew. It seemed Mycroft had broken the dam of emotions filtering to his mouth.

"…I appreciate the change of opinion." John gave him a tight smile and leaned back a bit. "Thank you."

Sherlock shied away from accepting the gratitude. It had been enough that he'd even ventured this close to admitting his mistakes. Acknowledging John's thanks would have overtly meant that he'd fully shouldered that blame. "This has been quite trying for both of us. It would be more trying if you were not here."

Sherlock stared at a fixed point on the wall, rather than the man seated beside him. "...I never quite understand how these things are supposed to work. Everyone is reading from a different script that makes no sense."

John wasn't exactly sure whether he was talking about his brother again or how to deal with his assumptions when he'd blamed John. He thought about it for a minute and finally came to a conclusion. "You're not really supposed to know. There's no definite answer. You just do the best you can and know that you'll be set back along the way, regardless." He sighed. "Now, finding Moriarty on the other hand, _that_ we can do something about."

Sherlock nodded. Between the unusual silence in the house and the lack of a task he could apply himself to, he was beginning to feel restless. John had given him the perfect exit to escape the conversation before it turned somewhere he didn't want it to go.

"Speaking of, I'm going to go see if Mycroft has something for us yet." Sherlock rose to his feet and beat a hasty retreat down the stairs.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains almost-Holmescest.

The rest of the day had passed in varying instances of doldrums and tension, the brothers working on rounding up their assets, deciding who could be trusted and who could not, finding holes in Mycroft's security and patching them as best they could, and making sure that anyone who knew them by proxy was out of Moriarty's reach. It was tedious work, even for John to overhear. He cooked them dinner, and they ate briefly together, but the overall mood had not improved much.

As they worked into night, eventually John grew tired and Mycroft became restless with Sherlock's presence. They had been together all day and even John thought it might be best to give the boy some air, let him think by himself, and allow him to concentrate on his work - with the stipulation that if Mycroft's mood worsened, even marginally, that he would call them down. John would make them sleep in the panic room if they had to.

As it was, he and Sherlock took the guest bedroom on the uppermost floor.

Mycroft had listened to both men retreat, then shut and locked the door behind himself. While Sherlock had been present, his actions had been limited to working on strategy and the necessary steps to move forward. Without the danger of being interrupted by Sherlock or John, Mycroft could begin to process the other half of the problem.

The boy had had no difficulties in accessing the CC-TV footage from earlier. Two of the screens now had grainy video pasted across them, replaying the scene again and again - two men who were unmistakably Sebastian and Jim, openly assaulting his brother's flat in broad daylight in an attempt to catch him. Jim looked even more manic than he had before Mycroft had recovered his memories, completely consumed and driven. From the exit footage, it appeared that Sebastian had almost had to bodily drag Jim away before the Met could close in.

Mycroft was so focused on freezing and enhancing certain frames of the recordings that he almost didn't notice the flicker of proximity warnings from his security system. He nearly couldn't believe what met his eyes as he spotted a familiar outline, right across the street.

Jim Moriarty stood on the sidewalk, impeccably dressed, hands in his pockets, and facing Mycroft's front door. He stepped closer, into the light of the street lamps, daring Mycroft's security to come down on him if they were there. His expression was stony, unblinking, simply staring.

The Jim Mycroft had known before would have been playful about it, if he were taunting one of his targets. He would have waved. He would have smiled. Probably even blown a kiss. This Jim simply stared with wrath and knowing in his shadowy gaze, mostly obscured by the light cast over him and the quality of the video feed.

It was no less a show of power though. Jim dared to get this close, imposing himself where he was unwanted. He would do more soon.

After a minute, he stepped backward and slipped back into the night.

Mycroft activated a short range scan, but it was too late. Surprise had dulled his reflexes, and if Jim had had any traceable electronics on his person, they were out of range by now.

The boy stared at the now-motionless screen until his vision began to blur. His fist slammed against the desk. Something broke inside him, and Mycroft's reserve went with it. He found himself on the third floor in the space of a few seconds, chest heaving and unable to stop trembling. "Sher-" Mycroft's soft voice cut off as he remembered that John would be in there with him.

Some ruffling came from within the room before the door opened to reveal a tired looking, bed-haired Sherlock. He looked like he'd been tossing and turning, and fortunately for Mycroft, he probably hadn't even gotten to sleep. John was still on the bed behind him, deeply unconscious. Sherlock followed the boy's gaze.

"Trick of the military: sleep when you can, wherever you can." Sherlock looked somewhat envious before he turned back, eyes growing serious. "Mycroft, what is it?"

Mycroft's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He knew what was needed, but it felt... wrong, somehow, to voice it. "It wasn't enough. I'm trying, but it wasn't enough." His gaze drifted to John's still form behind Sherlock. He noted with a certain amount of detached horror that a part of himself was sizing up the doctor and weighing the possibilities. Mycroft forced himself to look back at Sherlock.

Sherlock's gaze narrowed and he moved into the hall, closing the door behind himself. He'd caught the look on his brother's face and read it exactly for what it was. He drew the robe, one of Mycroft's finer silk ones, around himself tightly before trying to investigate the boy further with his gaze alone, but getting nothing more than desperate need, an edge of despair. "Did something happen?" he asked, deep voice dropping as quiet as it could.

"J-...Moriarty showed up outside. Briefly. Just long enough for him to know I'd see him, too quick for me to do anything about it." Jim wouldn't be able to breach the house perimeter without a good deal of time and work, more than enough for Mycroft to counterattack and escape, but seeing the criminal right outside had unraveled the last of his pretense at calm composure. He felt wound tight, the only choices left being to find release or let himself completely break.

At first, Sherlock's instincts overrode what Mycroft was asking of him. Moriarty had been _right there_ , and after all, Mycroft's desperation was sparked by fear, anger, at seeing him, but as Sherlock grit his teeth and started for the stairwell, he was blocked by Mycroft’s small form. He understood then, at the look on Mycroft's face, that the boy had already given up on going after the criminal. He needed something from Sherlock instead.

The tall man's lips parted. "It's gotten that bad?"

Mycroft licked his lips. Doubt filtered into the back of his mind. It was foolish to ask this, even of his brother. "I can't think about anything else, right now." The small escape tunnel beneath the house was a sore temptation. Mycroft knew he could slip away from the house undetected, but everything that followed would be less certain. Moriarty would have people watching for him, and someone would get hurt. Perhaps himself, given that he wasn't in a state to have the time and resources required to get what he needed.

That in itself was a measure of how far the cracks had spread. His concern was no longer even a detached acknowledgement that another human being would unjustly suffer, but that the danger of getting caught was unacceptably large.

"Ok," Sherlock nodded once, growing anxious at the way Mycroft was withdrawing. "Downstairs, then." They needed to be far away from John and somewhere they could easily clean up. He ushered the boy ahead of him and they descended the stairs rapidly. The tension in Mycroft's whole frame was evident. The way his shoulders tightened and bunched were indicative of the thoughts running through his head, as if wound with energy, readying for an attack.

"Give me a second," Mycroft mumbled as they reached the second floor. He disappeared around the corner, returning a minute later with a small bundle of medical supplies. It said something that his facade was slipping enough that Sherlock could plainly read tinges of guilt on his brother's face. "Down to the kitchen. It's... easier to clean up," he offered by way of explanation, still not quite looking at Sherlock. If Mycroft was perfectly honest with himself, he was afraid - afraid of hurting his brother, and afraid to look up and see signs of rejection from Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded with a brave expression. Mycroft's uncertainty worried him a little. It would be easier for the boy to slip up if he wasn't focused, but Sherlock reminded himself that he could do this, and _would_ do this, no matter the risk.

He followed Mycroft down to the lower level where the kitchen remained just as they had left it earlier. There was a stillness to the air now, one that had not been there before, and Sherlock looked around the room with a different gaze. A block of knives beside the sink drew his eye. The cord in the pull out faucet did so as well, along with a dozen or more other items standing within arm’s reach on the countertops.

He moved to the center island and turned, facing Mycroft, then lowered himself to a stool. He closed his eyes briefly, taking a breath of air, and then opened them.

"I'm ready."

Mycroft set his bundle of supplies against the countertop. He stared at Sherlock for a long moment, visibly warring with himself as the last of his facade unraveled. The boy was having less of a problem with the idea of his possible actions, and more with the recipient of the same. Sherlock was _his_ \- his responsibility, his brother, nearly his _child_ , even if physically that relationship was now reversed.

But Sherlock was, short of Jim or Sebastian, the only one who was currently acceptable to hurt. He'd understood. He'd agreed, knowing what it meant.

Mycroft still didn't like the way Sherlock's eyes followed him as he gathered the rest of what he'd need. One of the crisp linen dishtowels was turned into a makeshift gag and tied in place. Two knives were set on the countertop, and a length of nylon cord. A spatula and two wooden spoons were added to the pile, along with a bowl of ice from the freezer.

Mycroft placed himself in front of Sherlock, cradling his brother's face in his hands for a rare moment, looking at him without layers of shields obscuring the view. The hunger present beneath his sorrow won out, as Mycroft knew it would. Tugging Sherlock’s borrowed robe off and discarding it on the floor, he leaned in and renewed the mark he'd left on Sherlock's shoulder earlier that day, shivering at the sound Sherlock made around the gag. His hand closed around one of the wooden spoons and his focus sharpened as he pulled back.

The first blow left a delicate pink imprint against Sherlock's pale skin.

Sherlock flinched, but he stayed where he was, and he looked alright. He'd been a little more comfortable with Mycroft's teeth in his skin, even if it did technically hurt more than the spoon coming down across his chest. The boy couldn't put a lot of weight into it, but the speed of his strokes made up for the loss of strength. Knowing his brother would move on, Sherlock let himself wince a little. The point was, after all, to allow Mycroft to see him and everything he was feeling just as much as it was for the boy to inflict it. His hands tightened into fists, body instinctually tensing whenever he expected a hit.

Mycroft was being affected on more than one level. He gritted his teeth every time he drew back to deliver another stroke, but the darkness creeping into his gaze and his rapid breathing was only partially from adrenaline. The boy seemed to forget who he was hitting for a time, painting crisscross patterns across Sherlock's torso until his skin was flushed red from the abuse.

Mycroft finally stepped back, his tongue darting across his lips as he gauged the damage. He shook his head and dropped the spoon, untied Sherlock’s gag, and then began removing his own shirt. "On the floor."

Sherlock's eyes were heavy with pain. Every breath hurt him, but he gingerly stood, sliding the stool back and bent down on one knee and then the other. He stretched out on his back obediently, glancing down at his own reddened chest where he was lightly bleeding in places from small scratches, before his eyes were drawn away by Mycroft. Sherlock watched curiously as Mycroft’s shirt fell to the floor. His gaze travelled up to the boy's pale chest, bare and marked with bruises and bites in contrast to the angry red patterns traced across his own skin.

Mycroft was entranced. Leaving marks on Sherlock was soothing in its own way, as was the exertion, but it was Sherlock's expressions and twinges that completed it. He drew a deep breath, selected one of the knives, and settled himself astride Sherlock's waist. Practicality had won out over propriety - they were already breaking a number of social rules by even doing this. Mycroft reasoned that Sherlock would agree with his choice to sit however was necessary to keep maximum control over the depth and angle of the blade.

Mycroft licked his lips again and carefully lowered the knife to skin. The nicks left behind were thin, just enough to sting and draw blood. Mycroft's shoulders were tight with tension, ready to jerk the knife back if Sherlock had an unexpected reaction that put him in danger of a more deadly wound. After a few moments he drew the flat of the blade against the cuts, lifting it up so Sherlock could see the reddish stain.

Sherlock had been cringing., but the movement caught his attention. When his gaze refocused and landed on the blade, everything about him stilled. Even his jaw whet slack as he stared, pain nearly forgotten. A slice of his own reflection stared back at him, half obscured by a thin smudge of blood. He drew a deep breath, glanced down to his chest and then back up to the blade as though taken by surprise. He swallowed.

"Mycroft… I don't know if I ever told you…" Sherlock’s breathing deepened and he reached out for the boy's arm, drawing the knife closer to himself. He licked his lips, somewhat uncertainly. "I have a certain…fascination, with…" The blade was close enough now, and Sherlock was still a little hesitant, but transfixed on the smear of red. His tongue darted out over the flat of it, stomach going a bit tight at Mycroft watching.

Mycroft's darkened eyes watched in fascination. He'd had some suspicions about it over the years, but never had Sherlock confirm it. His breath left him in a sigh as he let Sherlock taste the blade, and his brother looked up.

Mycroft couldn't have said what possessed him to drag his fingertips along the cuts. He raised two crimson digits, something clenching deep inside him as they garnered Sherlock's attention. He recognized that kind of hunger.

Sherlock's pupils instantly dilated, staring at the red, wet fingers. He swallowed. The fixation wasn't normally this strong in him. Normally he dealt with blood and flesh in crime scenes and lab slides, and while he derived more than a certain amount of fascination with it than was considered normal in those environments, having something so beautiful and tantalizing on display for him in a _different_ setting captured his attention more than he had anticipated. This environment was contrived for pleasure - Mycroft's, specifically, but that wasn't the point.

The beauty of bright red over pale porcelain fingertips called to Sherlock. He took hold of his brother's wrist, secondarily fascinated at how small it was, and how he could never remember it being this small, and turned Mycroft’s hand this way and that, examining the blood and marveling at its color. He feared it would dry soon, and so he took his chance while he could, carefully, delicately sliding his tongue up Mycroft's index finger and smearing the blood across it. He looked at the path he'd made before taking it into his mouth, then doing the same with the second, and third.

Mycroft froze, lips parted in surprise. He'd merely intended to use the blood as a prop, one more thing to trigger a visceral reaction in Sherlock. What he hadn't quite expected was that Sherlock would respond by sucking his fingers clean, one at a time.

Moreover, the experience shouldn't have been as pleasant as it was. Something about the taboo feeling to the entire encounter amplified the sensation. Mycroft was exquisitely aware of the slide of each finger against Sherlock's tongue and the wetness as he was released.

A greater horror was the realization, as Sherlock's darkened gaze fixed on him, that he'd suddenly gone hard. Mycroft stared back, trapped, unable to think of what to do or how to explain away what his brother must have already felt.

A faint splash of red tinged Sherlock's cheeks in return. Ice grey eyes darted to the side past Mycroft's head, avoiding the boy's gaze, and Sherlock's body squirmed uncomfortably. It was just a tiny movement, but telling, and when Mycroft leaned back, ever so slightly, he noticed that Sherlock was having a similar problem. From the blood alone and Mycroft bent over him, offering tastes and teases, the man was half hard.

Sherlock's cheeks grew redder and, obstinately, he huffed a small sigh, staring even further off to the side. "This is…unexpected."

"This is the... only occasion I can recall where... you erred on the side of understatement." Mycroft closed his eyes. Both of them had already been venturing into dangerous territory in attempting to sate his hunger, but he couldn't drag Sherlock into... _this_. His brother had always shied away from experimenting with sexuality, and unless Mycroft was mistaken, that still held true. John Watson projected depth of emotion and longing towards his brother in a way that could only indicate that he had either not confessed or was unrequited, and Sherlock's oblivious behavior suggested the former. Sex and the related emotions and behaviors were still Sherlock's blind spot from lack of experience.

Mycroft shifted his weight to his hands and off of Sherlock's waist.

Another small sigh escaped Sherlock, this time one of minute relief. He allowed himself to look at Mycroft again. The boy was more aware of himself now, the intensity of his focus momentarily sidetracked by Sherlock's reaction, so the man laid his head back on the cold floor and presented himself once again for Mycroft's use, signaling that he was ok for them to continue. His body was still tense, but he forced his shoulders back and watched his brother.

It took Mycroft a couple of moments to compose himself. He still had trouble looking at Sherlock. He _shouldn't_ look at his brother and have his mind wander to the places it was going.

Mycroft's fingers closed around the length of cord. In less than a minute he had a suitable lasso, complete with a slipknot for safety. He gestured for Sherlock to raise his head and draped it around his neck, then tightened the noose - _just_ enough to start cutting into the skin and causing discomfort. "I know what I'm doing, but if you want out, tap twice on the floor," he murmured. Once he was certain Sherlock had heard and understood, his fingers dug into a pressure point.

Sherlock gasped, and in return, the rope cut even tighter into his neck. The thick veins and tendons bulged on either side of it, and Sherlock could only get short, tightly restricted breaths of air. It would have been fine if Mycroft hadn't been shocking him into bursts of throbbing pain with his fingers. The boy was incredibly skilled at finding the otherwise hidden points in his body that could be triggered like a detonator. He would react and his air cut off in return, then get a moment of relief only for it to happen again. Sherlock writhed, unable to stop himself, clenching his teeth and muffling the sounds trying to escape from the back of his throat, but he didn't make a move to throw Mycroft off.

Sherlock had never seen Mycroft like this. The boy might have been looking at a masterwork of art, his skin flushed and dark eyes full of hungry longing. One hand drifted up to cradle Sherlock's cheek.

The combination of Sherlock's struggles and pressure from Mycroft's hands had caused a few of the small cuts to begin to bleed again. Droplets rolled in ticklish runnels down Sherlock's sides. Mycroft couldn't quite resist from painting his fingers in the liquid again. It was a small temptation, a small sin to want a repeat of the sensation of Sherlock sucking him clean, drunk on the taste of his own blood. The boy sighed and lifted his hand to where Sherlock could see it, then loosened the cord around his throat so his brother could move.

Sherlock gasped and his jaw went slack as he pulled air into his lungs. He looked to Mycroft, and then to the boy's hand, then to Mycroft once more, just to be certain. Still breathing hard, he bent forward, reaching up for the red digits. The strain on his neck and shoulders was searing, but Sherlock ignored it as best he could in favor of the dark, sticky substance on Mycroft's small fingers.

His tongue was far less accurate this time. The small cuts had opened up well and Mycroft had gotten quite a lot of blood on his hand. Sherlock, pained and shaking and altogether past caring, slid the flat of his tongue up and in between every digit. It smeared over his jaw, and he licked his lips and wondered how it would look smeared across Mycroft's face, a face he hadn't seen in so very long.

Mycroft leaned closer and cupped the back of Sherlock's head, easing the tension in his brother's frame and giving himself a better view in one movement. Dark curls twined around his fingers, so familiar from their childhood that Mycroft shivered. It was odd, too odd, to suddenly be the smaller of the two of them.

Sherlock lapped at his hand without restraint, cleaning every last inch of skin while neglecting his own. Mycroft stared at him for a long moment after his brother finished, searching for something in Sherlock's grey eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned closer. Curiosity drew him in, and Mycroft's tongue caught a smear of blood that trailed down the side of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock bent his neck, painful as it was, inclining his head toward Mycroft. Logic fizzled out and the younger brother was overcome by feeling alone, rendered immobile in its wake. Sherlock didn't know what to do, didn't exactly know what this meant or what he wanted it to mean, but alternately, he didn't care. So surprised was he at the sensation and the _fixation_ that all he wanted to do was let it continue.

And then the unthinkable happened. The soft thump of a footstep entered the doorway, trudging sleepily into the kitchen.

"Sherlock," John's voice came quietly, "You in here— _holy FUCK!_ "

Mycroft had whipped around in panic at the sound of an intruder. A piece of him recognized that it was John in the doorway, but complex thought was overridden by the survival impulses to fight or flee. The boy was frozen, blood smeared across one corner of his mouth, still trying to figure out which option to pursue. He instinctually moved closer to Sherlock, uncertain whether he was protecting his brother or Sherlock was protecting _him_.

Sherlock shot up, not quite making it any farther than kneeling at the sudden lance of searing hot pain through his chest. He had one arm in front of Mycroft, keeping him close and holding him back, but the rest of him intended to right himself as quickly as possible. His mouth opened a whole second before anything came out. " _John_."

John was struck still in the doorway, one hand gripping it tight, eyes impossibly wide, and looking like he was either ready to save Sherlock from the monster in Mycroft he'd been warned about earlier… or stay rooted to the spot forever because there were certain aspects of the scene before him that didn't quite fall in line with that conclusion. He took a step forward, brain rapidly flip flopping between the two options and not knowing what to make of it.

"John," Sherlock held out a hand for him to stop, "It's ok."

John's mouth only dropped wider. " _It's ok?_ What the _fuck, Sherlock!?_ " his voice came out in a shriek.

Mycroft's gaze darkened further still from fear and adrenaline. Sherlock had planted himself in front of Mycroft but... it wasn't right. It wasn't Sherlock's job to protect him - it was _his_ job to protect _Sherlock_.

The boy's hand stretched out past Sherlock's arm and snatched up the bloody knife that had been left on the floor. If the situation came down to a fight, he wasn't going to let John hurt either of them. Not without a fight. "Stop it. Just stop. Stop yelling."

John crouched and tensed, fear and adrenaline instantly spiking in reaction to the threat. Sherlock, seeing the same in both of them, nearly panicked. He stepped between them fully, gripping Mycroft's arm tight in one hand while holding the other out to keep John back.

"Yes, _stop_ , both of you!" Sherlock's voice rose, but somehow remained the steadiest. He was still catching his air, and it was still painful.

Bright red rope burns ran around Sherlock's neck. He was freely bleeding from the shallow cuts on his chest, and other finger-shaped red splotches stood out over nerve points in his skin. Mycroft, in contrast, looked like a little demon glaring at John with blood smeared on his mouth and blade in hand.

John gritted his teeth. As horrified as he was over Mycroft, he looked at Sherlock with a sinking feeling in his gut, too. Sherlock had been lying there, complicit…and at that point John wasn't sure who had been doing what, but the subtle signs indicated that Sherlock might have been in control of himself.

"John, I am alright. Mycroft is alright. I know how it looked." Sherlock tried to lock him in place with his eyes alone, focusing so hard on John that it almost worked.

"What _the fuck_ are you doing?" John hissed in a panic.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I needed an outlet. Sherlock understands the complexity of the situation and its necessity. More importantly, he was informed and willing to give _consent_ within particular boundaries."

Mycroft's attention was now torn between the possible threat John posed and his brother's wounds, now aggravated from movement and stress. "...I need to get Sherlock cleaned up and tended to, and I can't do that with you... threatening to rush in and attack over something you don't understand. Sit down."

John's lips parted and he looked hard between the two. Both of them were unreadable. He relaxed his stance slightly; he wanted to make sure Sherlock was ok just as much as Mycroft, but he was unwilling to back down completely.

"An _outlet_?," John countered, now beginning to suspect the worst. "After what Moriarty did to you?" John was thrown. Sherlock had warned him that Mycroft could not be trusted not to hurt John. John had assumed _if he were frightened or sent into a rage_ , not because he was addicted to what had happened to him. He turned to Sherlock. "This is _not what I meant_ by 'being there for him'!" If John didn't know better - and he was really starting to reevaluate exactly what he did and did not know - it almost would have looked like Sherlock had been taking advantage of 'being there for' Mycroft.

Sherlock's expression grew drawn, bordering on panicked again. "Please John, sit, and I will do everything I can to explain. _Please_."

So John did. More so because he'd never heard Sherlock say 'please' like that in his life.

Mycroft, in the meantime, had read John's facial expressions and deduced precisely where his line of thought had gone. He reluctantly parted with the knife for the moment, setting it on the countertop in favor of grabbing the medical supplies. Cleaning and sterilizing came first. "Sherlock, sit. On the stool, so I can reach everything.”

“Doctor Watson." The boy waited for John's attention to fix on him. "What we were doing in no way approximated what was done _to me_ , and this was at my request. Sherlock did not coerce me into anything." Sherlock's muscles clenched in reaction to the sting of antiseptic, and Mycroft touched his chest in response, trying to soothe him. "Unless I am terribly wrong, Sherlock does not enjoy pain, recreational or not."

Sherlock looked a little uncomfortable. "No," he admitted, "I don't."

John only looked dubious. Even though he'd had barely one second of observation, he didn't think Sherlock had appeared to be in pain until he’d tried to stand.

Sherlock balked and shifted on his chair, but he refused to mention his not-so-minor fixation. "I simply got a bit…carried away, but everything was still within the parameters of safety."

John took a shaky breath. He wetted his lips while he thought of his next question.. "Mycroft, may I ask…and I normally wouldn't, but considering the circumstances, I think I need to." John took another breath. "Why exactly do you need to do…this?" Torture his own brother.

That Mycroft's hands paused in their ministrations at all was telling. "...I'm not entirely certain." That much was truthful. It was a drive without a source, present and persistent long before he'd had any traumatic experiences in his life that might explain it away. "It would not be amiss to say that it's a rare trait that shows up in the family every now and again."

Cuts now clean, the boy exchanged the antiseptic for an antibacterial gel. He wasn't going to leave permanent marks on Sherlock if he could help it. "I'm not in the habit of doing this with Sherlock. Given the current circumstances, I didn't have a lot of choice." There had been no guarantee that he'd have stopped if he'd gotten another victim under the knife. "You were never supposed to find out, but I suppose a sense of urgency overwhelmed my caution."

John felt a coldness creeping inside him like ice in his veins. Dully, he recognized it as fear, instinctual and imprecise, but there within him. He stood a little straighter.

Sherlock swallowed. He could tell. He could not, however, assure John that Mycroft would be alright, reigned back in as he had been before, nor that his brother wouldn't harm either of them. "I am alright, John." That was the best he could do.

John looked a little queasy.

"My brother does not normally give into these desires so readily," Sherlock went on for John's sake. He couldn't guarantee that, of course, not with Mycroft's line of highly secretive work, but he had a strong suspicion about how much Mycroft did and did not let himself go. "This is…a difficult time."

Mycroft risked a glance at John. He'd known it was a mistake to do so before he did it, and his heart dropped at the sight. Fear, disgust, and rejection were all radiating off the doctor, plain as day. Mycroft had rather liked John, and now they'd never truly speak again. The doctor would moderate his words and behavior, afraid that he'd attack him with the right provocation.

"I am... uncertain that anything I say or do will sway your opinion of me at this point," Mycroft added quietly. He'd begun to apply plasters over Sherlock's cleaned and treated cuts, leaving his brother's torso a patchwork of pale skin and tan squares. "I am not going to suddenly attack you, particularly not while you're a guest in my house."

John took a deep breath and finally leaned against the countertop. He really didn't want to be put on the spot anymore, not with both brothers shooting him glances with varying degrees of guilt and defensiveness. Sherlock appeared to be plainly uncomfortable with everything about the situation and was sitting, back straight as a rod, with a tight jaw and an uncommon lack of words.

John nodded to Mycroft slowly. He believed the man, boy. John found it difficult to see him as a boy then, even if he looked like one. He believed Mycroft insofar as he did not do anything to warrant Mycroft's wrath. But…that only left him wondering who Mycroft ever _had_ attacked, and whether he would do so again.

Sherlock was the one to break the silence with a small sigh. "I think we've uncovered enough about each another for one night, wouldn't you agree, John? Why don't you wait upstairs."

John's teeth clenched minutely. He looked at Sherlock, trying to read him, but the man was as impassive as ever.

"My brother and I need to discuss this," Sherlock added.

Finally, John sighed and nodded once.

Mycroft's body had the good grace not to start trembling before John was out of the room. The boy stared at his own hands in distaste. Apparently his stress levels were high enough that even that couldn't be concealed anymore.

He couldn't look at Sherlock, he just couldn't. John's interruption had affected him on a deeper level than Mycroft wanted to admit, dredging up old feelings that he'd wanted to forget. That he was broken, monstrous, unredeemable no matter what else he might do to attempt to compensate for his flaw. "...shit," he whispered.

Sherlock was paralyzed for a moment, watching his brother coming undone in horror and not knowing what to do. His hands went up, hovering over Mycroft's shoulders but hesitating, not sure if the boy wanted to be touched or not. Not knowing how to comfort him and suddenly aghast at his own uncertainty. "Mycroft…" His voice came out deeper than he'd anticipated, but his hands settled over his brother's small shoulders and after one awkward moment, Sherlock pulled him closer.

"I should never have asked," the boy murmured in despair. Small arms wrapped around Sherlock in return, mindful of the tender areas dotting Sherlock's chest. "I shouldn't have dragged you into this." The need had been overwhelming. It _still was_. Rather than sating his hunger, it had only drawn his attention to how deep his cravings ran and how long it had been since he'd last indulged.

Mycroft's first impulse was to go hide himself away in the panic room and bury himself in work, but that wouldn't work for long. It wouldn't stop anything, and eventually he'd have to come out. Which meant facing Sherlock and John again.

Sherlock swallowed and clutched tighter. He wasn't helping his brother, especially not now that John had found out. Even if he hadn't, there was no evidence to suggest apart from their brief exchange earlier that Mycroft would have been sated for long enough after they'd finished. Sherlock was perfectly aware that with him, there were elements thrown into the equation that made Mycroft uncomfortable. To top everything off, they were trapped there unless Mycroft decided to move them to a government facility, and Sherlock might have a few choice things to say about that.

Instead, the detective's mind went elsewhere, turning over their options and discarding them one by one. "You really did have it under control before Moriarty, didn't you." With Sherlock, it was a statement.

"I did. You couldn't want what you'd never really had. You didn't know what you were missing, so you couldn't obsess over it." They had pointedly avoided discussing his problems over the years, but Sherlock...

Sherlock deserved to know, at least partially. Sherlock was also the most likely person to not turn him away, which was also something Mycroft desperately needed at the moment. "I was particularly careful, before. Never too often, limited damage. I was never present at executions or reviewed footage from battlefields or terrorist groups. I had someone else summarize what evidence could be found in such recordings and worked with that."

Mycroft felt fingers in his hair and shut his eyes. "Moriarty had me kill. Up close, in person. Before my memories were back and I knew what the consequences would be."

Sherlock's body relaxed against him finally, no longer awkward and uncomfortable. He let Mycroft sag into him and rested his cheek against the top of the boy's head. If he was in pain, he didn't show it, but Mycroft had done a good job with the bandages.

There were no words for this, and both of them knew it. Sherlock began to understand that, more than just breaking some crucial piece of his brother, Moriarty had _set something free_. But Sherlock's reaction was not as John's had been. He began to see how severely the paths that had been laid out before his brother had just been limited, or cut off completely, just as Mycroft knew he would. Mycroft had likened it to Sherlock's addiction, and Sherlock had to acknowledge the similarities.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said softly, "I only have one brother. …I would like to keep you safe."

"I don't know if you can. I refuse to endanger you with this. In any way." Mycroft had not spent the majority of his life working tirelessly to keep Sherlock safe, give him as free of a life as he could, only to drag him under, drowning them both with blood. "I still haven't... decided what the best course of action is. If there even _is_ such a thing. I don't know if this can be stopped, no matter how I might wish it."

What options did that leave him with? Very few: Moriarty was still a wildcard in the equation, still able to present evidence that would chain their fates together. Mycroft had doubts that Sherlock would be agreeable to the idea of him hunting in private, given his brother's choice of careers. And then there was that horror from his childhood. "I think I might prefer to die, rather than end up like Aunt Francine." Medicated into a childlike stupor and locked away, all of her wit and personality gone, replaced with something as soulless as the white walls of the care facility.

Sherlock's frown deepened. He would like neither, and his mind went to rebellious places. "In spite of your condition, you still hold enough power within the Defense department to hold them off, possibly indefinitely." Unless, of course, Moriarty brought their games to light. "If…" Sherlock paused, "If you can divert it well enough in the future…" He thought of a dozen ways Mycroft could do it. So long as he were able to hold off, find alternatives where he could, if that could be adequate… Mycroft might be able to avoid investigation.

But investigation from the outside was not the only thing Mycroft had to contend with. His very peers were as cutthroat, metaphorically, as he had been rising to his current position. He could be taken down just as easily from the inside.

"...you would truly be accepting and unconflicted, if I had to continue?" Mycroft asked quietly. They had always had a measure of understanding, he and Sherlock, even with the tension that had come between them in later years. Sherlock solved crimes primarily out of his love of puzzles, challenges, and the joy of unraveling someone's intricate plans. Mycroft had never been quite certain exactly where Sherlock's morality lines were drawn. He had, after all, been the one to report Mycroft's behavior in the first place when they had been children.

Sherlock was silent. His eyes lowered in thought and Mycroft could tell he was working over the question. "I would not be burdened by your actions, no." Sherlock twitched his head, taking hold of another thought. "I would prefer you stop, for convenience if nothing else. And…John would not see it this way." Sherlock had stopped to analyze the situation from John's point of view, unusual for the detective, but he had admitted to Mycroft that he suspected he did not normally _feel_ as he should and that John would sometimes become a stand-in for his conscience. His measure for normal.

"I had guessed that about the doctor already," Mycroft stated dryly. One more problem, particularly as they were all trapped together until the Moriarty situation could be sussed out.

Mycroft sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn't felt this pressured even in his normal work. All of this was personal and hit close to home, instead of merely impacting numbers on a data sheet, faceless members of the masses and political situations. He couldn't afford the collateral should he misstep. "I'll have to consider the situation more and see if it can be put off or gradually starved back to where it was before. Things should be... manageable, at least until Moriarty is dealt with." He hoped.

"You'll have to help... repair the damage that has been done with Doctor Watson. I doubt he will want to listen to me, or perhaps even be in the same room with me after this, which will not make for a pleasant few days while I try to plan. I'd rather not have the added stress of worrying about him and any unusual reactions he might have."

Sherlock bit his lip but nodded resolutely. "I’ll speak with him. He'll listen." John may have his doubts, but he would side with Sherlock in spite of them. Sherlock knew this. After everything, John was not aware the extent to which Moriarty had encouraged Mycroft's secret desires. John did not know Mycroft had killed. By the hard expression in his slanted eyes, Sherlock intended to keep it that way.

It would be rough between them, but John would not endanger their situation by doing anything rash against Mycroft. Not at this point. At the very least, it was fortunate that the elder Holmes owned a large house. John could avoid him as much as he liked.

Mycroft nodded. It would have to do. "I need to get back to work." Despite his statement, the boy didn't move away, but moved _closer_. Grey eyes trailed mournfully over the damage that had been done to Sherlock's chest, shoulders, and neck. Much as he'd enjoyed it at the time, it hurt to see Sherlock wounded, even if the marks were _his_. "I am sorry I couldn't make things more pleasant for you. That this was even necessary. It means more than you know."

Sherlock dropped his chin. Out of habit more than anything, he found it difficult to be this vulnerable with his brother. Mycroft could see Sherlock force himself past the hesitation. "People are often surprised by the amount of pain they can endure." Sherlock would not say that it hadn't been difficult, but… "I did not mind so very much." For Mycroft, it had been worth it. Sherlock thought about his own admissions during their 'session'. "I would also appreciate it if you didn't mention my own peculiar interest in anatomy."

"That goes without question. Your interests are by far the lesser sin, by society's measurements." Mycroft hesitated, wishing that Sherlock would look up but unwilling to prompt him with a touch. If Sherlock needed a small amount of mental privacy for the moment, he would not begrudge him this. "I've spent the majority of my life trying to protect you. I wouldn't endanger or embarrass you with this. Besides," he added with a slight quirk to his mouth. "Exactly who would I tell?"

Sherlock's eyes rose. Slowly, he nodded in understanding, lips pulled into a somber attempt at a smile.

Mycroft was now alone more than ever. It remained to be seen whether he would be able to keep the majority of his work. It would also severely inconvenience him while operating out in the real world. "Fortunate that you were never one for 'leg work', isn't it?" Sherlock mused. Once he was able to go outside again, Mycroft's life would likely be a constant exercise in vexation. At least for the next several years.

"Quite. I suppose I'll just have to rely more on individuals I trust who don't seem the slightest bit bothered with the idea of traipsing around Britain at odd hours." Sherlock had normally been quite resistant to acquiesce to his requests, but now, with this problem... surely his brother wouldn't refuse to help, knowing why he was asking.

Still, it was a sobering thought. Mycroft knew he'd have to isolate himself even more thoroughly in order to shield himself. His gaze dropped to the floor as he found himself thinking once more of Jim - equally isolated, to be certain, but _free_ in his solitude. Unbound and able to do whatever he wanted or needed.

They sat in silence for a moment until Sherlock noticed his expression and studied him more acutely. The detective's brows drew together. He cocked his head and a lone curl of black fell across his forehead. "Could it be, Mycroft… that he played the game with you perhaps too well?"

Sherlock didn't miss a thing. It was an exercise created and perfected between the two of them after all. They turned it against one another as they grew, always aware, always perceptive of the minor clues in each other, ready to wield the next deduction like a blow.

"I find myself uncertain how much of it might have been manipulation." That was the trouble with mind games - even if you knew there was a chance you had been played, a master wasn't immune. Techniques built to work against the structure and inherent programming of the human brain could work against all who possessed them. "He is, to some degree, a reflection of what my life could have become in different circumstances, with different choices. I also think it unlikely that the effects only travelled in one direction. Moriarty would not have broken his cautious game of shadows merely to throw a possessive snit."

Sherlock frowned. "You know as well as I, and as well as he, that the only way to win the game is to be the one unaffected. You have little chance otherwise." Sherlock's cold eyes sought Mycroft's and held him determinedly. If the boy didn't lose whatever sentiment he held for the criminal's world, then he would be fighting himself as much as Moriarty. "He will not forget this. He could have broken into the flat to lure us into a sense of security and make us assume he is desperate, rather than to actually find you."

"It makes little sense, though. One of his greatest assets was his anonymity," Mycroft argued. "His method of operation is to control from behind the scenes, adopt different personas as needed, obfuscate himself and his plans through multiple layers of action and middlemen. He had the advantage in staying hidden - no one had a firm fix on his physical features or his voice. He could claim to be anyone and no one would recognize him and contradict his claimed identity... except for me. He now has multiple witnesses who have seen his face and heard him speak, including members of the Met. I find it difficult to believe that he would pay such a high cost to gamble on the _chance_ that it might make me careless."

Sherlock considered this. It was possible that Moriarty, knowing Mycroft would 'out' him, as it were, as soon as he got the chance, simply unmasked himself and beat him to it, or…it could be that Mycroft was onto something. Sherlock sighed through his nose. "I would be reluctant to say that he is operating out of sentiment," Sherlock said finally. "Even if, miraculously, that were to be true, you would be wiser to err on the side of caution."

"Sentiment may be the wrong term. Obsession, or possessiveness, might be more apt." Mycroft was still uncertain about whether sentiment was truly involved, or if Jim was _capable_ of such things. Whatever it was, some sort of strong emotion was being pulled to the surface, enough that Moriarty had pushed himself to his limits to try to keep him, and might still be running on sheer willpower. "I'm not planning on making any mistakes and leaving a weakness open to exploitation."

Sherlock nodded. That was the best he could hope for, but he did not care to leave his hopes on chance and intention. And he had not seen his brother this open, this expressive, and, quite frankly, this vulnerable since the furthest reaches of his memories. It was very possible that when Mycroft spoke of Moriarty's obsession, he didn't have to imagine very hard.

"See that you don't. For your own sake." Sherlock stood and together they shared a moment, a brief meeting of the eyes in which Mycroft knew that Sherlock was not reprimanding him - Sherlock would only paint himself a hypocrite if he did - but rather, concerned for him.

The boy nodded, jaw set into a determined line. "I'm not going to be careless." Mycroft understood that Sherlock was only worried about him, _for_ him. His brother might have believed he was dead, at least for a while, and would be loathe for him to come near danger so soon after returning.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a brittle smile and moved around him to the stove, grabbing and filling the kettle. If he was going to keep working, he needed a pick-me-up. "Try to get some sleep, if you can. I'll see you in the morning."

Sherlock licked his dry lips, a habit he might have very well unconsciously picked up from John. His hesitance spoke his thoughts as clearly as though he'd said them aloud. _Will you be alright tonight?_ When their eyes met again and Mycroft's features were set in grim determination, Sherlock knew and he stood down.

"That goes for you as well," the younger Holmes said softly before he turned and headed off to confront John. The doctor was surely waiting for him with questions. Many questions.

Mycroft watched Sherlock go, then stood and stared at the empty doorframe until the kettle's whistling brought him back to the present. He prepared his mug with the mindless efficiency of habit, then returned to the panic room. The tang of bergamot improved the oppressive atmosphere of the room a bit, but Mycroft locked the door just in case. He couldn't be certain of John's reactions after tonight.

Computer monitors flared to life as he sat down, painting the room in a cold blue glow. Mycroft skimmed over the information that was all beginning to blur together and sipped at his tea, trying to think.

A notification at the bottom of his screen let Mycroft know that one of his more public Defense inboxes had received a new message. There was only one person who would have sent it.

_Come away, O human child, to the waters and the wild…_

The preview read only a few simple words in a channel link. It was old fashioned, very old fashioned - directing to an Internet Relay Channel. Mycroft had ample opportunity to mask his location and encrypt the chat before he even began.

The small blinking icon was enough to still his thoughts for a moment before everything sharpened to one thought: Jim. Moriarty had cast a line, and he would be on the other end. Not stupid enough to carelessly reveal his identity, and certainly not stupid enough to let any major information slip... but _there_.

It was a temptation that was too great to resist. Despite the reassurances that Mycroft had given Sherlock, despite all of his anger and doubt, Moriarty still tugged at him. He could feel his pulse speeding up as he put precautionary measures into place, then activated a client that connected him to the channel.

One user was already present - Ares. Jim now likened himself to a god of war. Fitting. They were effectively waging one of their own. The Met, the ministries of the government, even Mycroft's brother and his companion had been reduced to pawns between them. Upon inspection, Mycroft found that Jim was also masked by a proxy. Almost as quickly as he had entered, a new message popped up.

_Will you come with me?_

Mycroft typed quickly. There was no way to know how long Moriarty would stay. If he wanted answers, time was of the essence.

_Why should I? Why should I trust someone who took advantage, played to my weaknesses, broke the safeties put in place?_ The text flickered into place beside his own username of Arach. _You were ready to kill me with a half-baked compound._

The reply came seconds later.

_And this is the outcome - you, clinging so -desperately- to those safeties which hold you prisoner far better than I ever did. Do you think that is freedom? Do you consider that "living"?_

_Not particularly._ Mycroft had survived, not lived. The days had stretched into endless streams of work and solitude, simply to ensure that he and his brother could continue to draw breath.

_You give me no guarantees of anything. My old life was not particularly enjoyable, but there are some securities. I don't have a death wish. Certainly not one big enough to gamble on the possibility that you are capable of emotional attachment, rather than a combination of possessiveness, egotism, and lust. I ask again, why should I trust you?_

Mycroft waited. Seconds passed, then finally a response.

_Because I will get to you. And I will have you again, either way._

There was too much that Jim wasn't saying, and even less in text. Jim was in war mode, his guards were up, his focus precise, and he probably hadn't slept in days.

Mycroft steepled his fingers. As empty and emotionless as he normally felt, simple words on the screen were pulling him into turmoil. Jim wasn't leaving him many options. If he didn't pursue the criminal, Moriarty would fulfill his threat. If Mycroft did catch him, Jim could only be held for so long, perhaps even with severe precautions and ample amounts of sedatives. Being captive would injure the man at his core, much as Mycroft knew that being committed to a hospital would destroy him.

The last alternative would be to truly destroy Jim - kill him and permanently end the threat. Much as Mycroft didn't want to admit it, the thought made something twist painfully inside him. Moriarty was the closest kindred spirit Mycroft had ever encountered, even more than Sherlock on some levels. Killing him meant resigning himself to being permanently alone, trapped in cages of his own devising and ever haunted by shadows.

_That's not a reason, mo muirnín. That's a threat. There is a difference. If you're aiming to tempt me, you have to have something to offer._

Again, Mycroft waited. Even longer this time.

_I have only myself, and the freedom you so longed for, once._

The text on the screen might as well have been a knife. The words cut, brutally and efficiently, down to the core, where doubts had already taken hold. Having tasted a bit of the alternative, Mycroft didn't know if it was possible to put himself back into his regulated, restrained, solitary life. Not without enduring a sort of living death.

Fear still held him back. Taking that step meant placing himself into Jim's power again and trusting that the man wouldn't try to collar him. The fact that Jim had been so willing to try dangerous experimental compounds on him without proper testing was still burned into his mind, as was the fact that he'd played him so thoroughly when his mind was vulnerable. And the circumstances of their meeting.

_Still as equals?_

The wait was shorter this time, but not as quick as Mycroft's rising concerns would have hoped for.

_Yes._

_I need time to consider._ Mycroft couldn't afford to make a snap decision on this. The rest of his life hung on his choice, and his life had the potential to be a few decades longer than he'd been expecting. _Give me a few days._

_Two, and your time is up._

Jim disconnected.

That was something, but there was no doubt that he would come for Mycroft then. And he'd be planning in the meantime.

Mycroft quit out of the program and took another drink from his now-tepid tea. He wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight, or the next. He had thinking and planning to do.


	20. Chapter 20

The hours passed too quickly for Mycroft. There was too much to plan and arrange, and the clock was now ticking.

The boy confessed that Moriarty had contacted him when Sherlock joined him for breakfast the next morning, and that he'd been given a time deadline in which to give himself up before the criminal came for him. The two Holmes brothers had put their heads together to consider their options. John had kept his distance and busied himself on the other side of the kitchen, preparing food and taking care of the dishes. Whatever he and Sherlock had discussed the previous night, the doctor was clearly uneasy around Mycroft.

Mycroft respected as much and gave John his space. He hardly had the time to spend soothing Doctor Watson's feelings.

Sherlock predictably latching onto the puzzle before them had left John mostly on his own. When eggs and toast were ready, he was the only one who ate, and he sat on the far end of the island to watch them discuss without commentary.

The way the brothers saw it, Moriarty's deadline gave them a particular advantage. Not only did they now have a timeline to anticipate, but more importantly they could _force_ Moriarty to strike when _they_ were ready. Jim was no fool. He knew that put the ball in their court, and Sherlock especially was wary of the counteractions Jim could take against them. In order to accomplish this, they decided that Mycroft had to give up his allotment of time to decide, and he had to leave the house.

If they could trick Moriarty into believing that Mycroft had refused his offer and made a run for it, specifically to the nearest military base where he would be able to more easily mount a defense against Moriarty, they could force the criminal out of hiding and into their trap. Essentially, Mycroft would be used as bait.

Sherlock was far more reluctant to do this than he ever would be with one of his normal clients, and it was obvious. John stayed out of it, but they could tell that even he thought so. The detective had lost his brother once already, and he was very reluctant to risk him again.

They had to coordinate with Lestrade for backup. Once Moriarty was on their tail, nothing could be allowed to go wrong. Execution had to be flawless.

Mycroft had spread out a detailed map on the kitchen table and begun to mark it up, turning the space into a partial war room. To get the confined, controlled route that they needed in order to box Jim in, they had to head south. The base Mycroft had in mind was perfect - not too far from London, yet only reachable by one main road. Jim would be forced to strike somewhere along that route, then forced to retreat along the same road. An air assault would be too risky for the criminal that close to a base.

Mycroft insisted that, after Moriarty and his forces were captured, they'd continue on to the base and contain all of the prisoners there. Lestrade had argued the point when it was brought up, until Mycroft had pointed out how likely it was for Moriarty to have contacts within the Met and the relative strengths of the Yard's cells against those of a military detention block. The Met might want guarantees that they'd be able to prosecute and pursue the case, but keeping Jim in custody was the top priority.

The boy grew more and more pale, drawn, and shadowed as their plans were solidified and communicated to all of the necessary parties. It was obvious that Mycroft hadn't slept since his return. His tea mug became a constant companion, and a tension spread through his frame as they drew closer to the deadline. An hour before they were due to leave and put things into motion, small tremors had begun that he couldn't quite seem to still.

John had been unusually quiet throughout, but it wasn't difficult to see why. Mycroft unnerved him. The boy became more like a ghost, haunting the halls and working at a staggering pace with half shuttered eyes. It would have been bad enough had he still been an adult, but it was even more disquieting in a child's body. Nothing Mycroft did reflected the traits of a boy.

They all drew together in the reception room, probably for the last time, to gather their things and make sure that every detail was in place. Sherlock checked with Lestrade on the phone, pacing circles around the room, while John sat quietly on the couch alternately following the detective and watching Mycroft.

Mycroft could have been dead, but for the ever so subtle shivering. His eyes were unfocused, taking in the room without really seeing it. Truth be told, he looked like someone who was heading toward a firing squad, knowing he was never coming back. Sherlock's pacing and gesturing as he spoke with Greg didn't help matters.

The boy waited for Sherlock to finish, eyebrows raised in question. When Sherlock nodded, he sighed. "It's time, then. Remember to control yourself. You cannot move in too quickly or we'll lose our chance. Stick to the plan and stay with your assigned team."

Sherlock was still unhappy with the idea of involving Mycroft at all, much less having him being bait, but he was resigned to the fact that he didn't get a choice in the matter. The brothers had argued about it and he'd had to admit that the plan was, paradoxically, the safest way to deal with the threat, taking Moriarty out quickly and efficiently. Being happy about it was another matter.

The doorbell rang. Mycroft's escort had arrived. The boy's eyes closed for a moment before he headed to the front door and input the password that would unshield the entryway and let them out.

They had to move fast.

Jim would be watching, and once he realized Mycroft was on the move, he would feel like he had to act or lose the boy. He wouldn't hesitate.

Quickly, Mycroft, John, and Sherlock were ushered from the house by nameless, faceless security and bundled into three waiting vehicles - one leading, Mycroft in the middle, and John and Sherlock in the back. They sped away as one, taking the sleepy city streets of upper class, residential London in a blur. Lights changed for them and switched back the moment they were through. The neighborhood was left unaware of anything untoward happening in their wake, but Jim was surely not.

They were three blocks away and swiftly approaching the river when a single black Jaguar slid easily into position behind them, keeping pace and hanging back a good distance.

Mycroft was not handling the stress well. He could juggle any number of difficult tasks from the relative safety of his computer consoles or utilize an interrogation room with ease, but painting a target on himself was another matter. Particularly when a lack of sleep had already worn down his nerves. When security announced via the encrypted inter-group radio that a tail had been spotted already, Mycroft's hand drifted to the small pistol he'd brought along.

Moriarty couldn't strike yet. _Not yet_. He shouldn't have known what was going to happen. They needed to get out of the city first.

Passage over the bridge was a lesson in anxiety for all of them. They made it across as quickly as they could, but it was then that the car keeping pace with them began to speed up. So did they in return. Two more sleek cars joined the pursuit.

Moriarty was acting too quickly, and he was getting too close. But Mycroft did have the best advantage in the city, coincidentally - traffic control. With well-timed lights and the ebb and flow of the masses around them, he was able to draw ahead of Moriarty well enough to escape the city with a good lead.

By then, unfortunately, Jim would have had little trouble estimating their destination.

CCTV cameras kept watch over their status. Someone radioed to confirm that, while the barrier of lights and vehicles had worked in the short term, Moriarty was still in hot pursuit. As soon as they were beyond the borders of the city, the convoy speeded up considerably. They were in a race against time, at this point. Everything depending on how quickly they could move relative to Moriarty, both in terms of the vehicles following them and the backup the criminal would call in for assistance.

Tension increased as the race stretched on. They passed Croydon, then South Croydon, and civilization tapered off considerably, as did the number of roads. Jim would have had no doubt in his mind now as to where Mycroft was heading.

From there it was a flat out sprint.

Mycroft's drivers were good, but Jim's were gaining on them. They had an even number of cars until another pulled out of nowhere in Kenley and nearly took out Mycroft's lead. They had barely avoided a collision and it was only luck that their second two vehicles pulled out ahead while the first was lost in the driver's efforts to hold Jim's additional car back. The two were locked in a battle on the road, interfering with traffic behind them, but at least creating an effective roadblock. There was little hope for the driver when they saw Jim's last three cars converge on the scene in their mirrors. Their driver's car flipped, and a man in Jim's car hung out the window to fire a killing shot as they passed.

That left Mycroft with only two cars and none to spare, and Jim's had circumvented the crash quickly enough. They only had to hold out a little longer.

Mycroft didn't even hear the crackling of the radio as the rest of his men scrambled to hold positions. He was going to lose a few men. He'd known as much going into this. All of his attention was on Jim's car, determination filling his gaze. Just two more minutes and they'd cross the threshold point they needed to reach.

Jim's men struck at precisely the right moment. The road had turned into a singular stretch without any turnoffs by that time the government cars were blocked in, tires shot to useless ribbons. Gunfire broke out as Mycroft's security put up a convincing fight, picking off and weakening Jim's hired thugs before it became clear they were being overwhelmed. Hands went up, and Mycroft's team surrendered.

For the briefest moment, everything was still.

The scene laid out before them, backdropped against the rolling green countryside and crystal blue skies, was a little surreal. Things had come to a head in the middle of nowhere, outside a farm and in between the trees of a densely packed forest, one of very few along the road they'd followed.

Most of Mycroft's men, Sherlock and John included, were using their vehicles as barricades, just like Moriarty's, but unlike Moriarty's their heads and hands tentatively peered over their metal barriers, announcing defeat. Only Mycroft remained ensconced in his own car, a last measure of safety.

A lone, dark figure from the other side stepped into the road. The man was huge and dressed like he was ready to go into battle with a rifle slung over his back, holsters at his sides, semi-automatic drawn and held tightly in leather gloves, advancing swiftly toward them. If Mycroft hadn't recognized him before, the flash of his blond hair picked up by wind was a dead giveaway.

Sebastian was coming for him.

Grey eyes widened as they watched the bodyguard through the tinted windows. Prickles of fear ran up his spine, wondering just how upset Sebastian was with him, worrying that the remainder of the plan wouldn't work.

Mycroft waited until Seb had reached the car before he unlocked his door, gun in hand. He pushed the door open and waited.

A gloved hand pulled it all the way open and Seb stepped back, gun at the ready for an attack from within, before Seb stepped back into view. They were in a standoff, weapons trained on one another. Mycroft's pistol was his last defense against being bodily dragged from the car, but Sebastian obviously was not taking it as much of a threat. "Drop it," the man growled. "We've got you."

Mycroft's mouth curled into a snarl, but he did as instructed. The gun had only been to prevent getting shot by overenthusiastic henchmen, after all, not a way to prevent being taken captive. The weapon fell and was lost somewhere in the shadows of the back seat. " _Fine_."

To his surprise, a flicker of a smile crossed Sebastian's mouth before he reached in and pulled Mycroft from the car by the collar of his shirt.

" _Mycroft!_ " Sherlock was darting forward the moment Mycroft was out, but Seb's arm dropped over his chest and pulled the boy back against him. The detective was drawn up short by the gun Seb leveled on him. John watched in distress from the side of their car.

"Nah ah ah," the gunman scolded. "He's coming with me." Seb backed away with Mycroft as the rest of Moriarty's men began to move in on them. "But don't worry, so are you."

Mycroft gritted his teeth and put up a fight as best he could, kicking and struggling against Sebastian's grip, twisting and trying to bite. He didn't make any progress against the bodyguard, but it was the signal for the second wave.

Now if only Sherlock would stay down and out of danger like he was supposed to.

Engines roared as more vehicles approached and boxed everyone in. Armored officers poured out, initiating a gunfight between lawmen and criminals once more. Mycroft's view of events was cut off as Sebastian crouched down and moved towards cover.

Unfortunately for him, the only cover available was the car he'd dragged Mycroft from, effectively cutting him off from the main portion of Moriarty's men. The others who'd been approaching to take Sherlock were taken down in the crossfire.

Sherlock did indeed have the sense to get out of the way, and he and John, who'd taken up his own handgun, darted to the other side of their car with the driver before Seb decided to take a shot at them.

The forest came alive as the Met's men poured out of it. Lestrade was somewhere with them, but with the armor it was impossible to make out who was whom.

Moriarty's men were surrounded in no time, still taking shots but dropping one by one. Finally, _finally_ Jim opened his car door and snarled in anger at the dozens of advancing policemen. He was _furious_.

"Freeze! Hands up!" The Met officers were under strict orders to take Moriarty alive, but no one wanted to take any chances. Everyone had been thoroughly informed at just how dangerous the criminal was. Dozens of guns were trained on Jim's remaining men, Sebastian's hiding place behind Mycroft's car, and now the open door of Jim's car.

Jim's men were vastly outnumbered.

Jim stepped away from the car, rolling his neck and methodically straightening his suit. Gracefully, he held out his arms, like he were welcoming them. He was unarmed.

Three policemen advanced cautiously until they reached him. His arms were grabbed and he was turned and shoved to the ground in one swift show of force. His hands were wrenched behind his back as the officers held him down, gun to his head and legs kicked apart.

Sebastian snarled and held Mycroft tighter, his gun now pressed to the boy's head. Seb couldn't stand and use him as a hostage to get to Jim, not when they were surrounded on all sides. He had to keep his back to the car. "Call them off," he growled in Mycroft's ear.

Mycroft glanced sideways at Sebastian and opened his mouth to speak.

At that moment, a third wave stuck. While the Met was distracted in taking down and restraining Moriarty's hired gunmen and the man himself, a separate assault crew had snuck into position behind them. Cries of surprise and anger filled the air as the policemen found themselves attacked from behind. Given the advantage by ambushing everyone while they were preoccupied, the third gunfight was far, far shorter. This mystery hit team was far better equipped than even the armored Met force, decked out with piercing rounds. The police didn't stand a chance, and given how quickly they surrendered, they knew it.

Black helmets with tinted visors obscured the faces of the victors, making it anyone's guess as to who they were or, more importantly, who had hired them. They rounded up both the police and Moriarty's men equally, snapping restraints around their wrists and dividing them up into small, manageable groups.

Only a few people were singled out. Sherlock, John, and Jim were all hit with tranquilizing rounds before the hitmen started putting them into restraints.

Sebastian crouched down into the car further, shouting curses at the group of interlopers bearing down on them. He was the only one left conscious because he was the only one with a captive. _Mycroft._

"This was _you_." His gun dug against the boy's temple. Seb had watched Jim fall. He'd watched him lose consciousness. Seb was furious when he'd been controlled before. "You knew we had men in the Met, waiting with them in the ambush," he snarled, breath hot against Mycroft's skin. If that was true, then Jim would have planned to turn the odds against them in the end either way, leaving him the victor. Seb rose to a crouch, arms tightly locked around the boy, as the masked men advanced on him, but Mycroft was too small to provide much of a shield. " _Call them off._ "

Mycroft's heartbeat was so loud, to his own ears, that he almost missed the quiet _snik_ noises as tranq guns were fired. He did not, however, miss the jolt of pain as a needle pierced his skin, or the grunt from Sebastian as he was hit with more of the same. They hit the ground together. Black-clad hands pulled Mycroft out of Seb's grip, and they stared at each other in a drugged stupor as the men bound, gagged, and finally blindfolded both of them and dragged them away. There was too much commotion to be able to have a firm grasp on their position relative to everyone else. Engines revved nearby.

Mycroft and Sebastian were separated, bundled into different cars that began to move as soon as they had their burdens. Within a matter of minutes, criminals and lawmen alike were gone, fractured into groups and driven away. All that was left on the country road were debris, broken vehicles, and broken bodies.

* * *

When Jim opened his eyes again, the world inside his mind was, for one moment, entirely blank. It had contracted down to nothingness, to darkness, and it was almost bliss. He turned his head and the motion skewed his internal balance. Then consciousness began to kick in, and he began to notice things around him, all at once. His eyes snapped wide and he lifted his head, tried to, but the muscles would not respond as quickly as he'd expected. The drug was still heavy in his system.

Everything was dark. The air was stale. He was standing suspended, hands tied high above his head, and it was difficult to breathe until his legs found purchase on the floor. It was cold. Concrete floor. No sound from the outside but the faint wind against the building. It was something large. He scuffed his shoe against the ground. The sound rang longer than it should have in the open space. A warehouse, then.

"Jim," a voice said, across from him somewhere in the darkness. His eyes were still adjusting. It was Sebastian.

" _Shut up_ ," Jim hissed, his tone slurred.

Soft footsteps reached the pair's ears. Something clicked, and a few lights flickered to life above them, spotlighting Sebastian and Jim and briefly making it more difficult for them to see. By the time their eyes readjusted to the illumination, a small figure had stepped into view.

The intense light highlighted the boy's hair and skin, making him seem to glow. Angelic, but for the shadowed look to his eyes and the pistol in one hand, suppressor screwed tightly into the barrel. A brief, ghostly smile touched Mycroft's lips before solemnity took over once more. "Hello, Jim. Sebastian."

Jim's lips drew back in a silent snarl before he dropped his head to gaze up at the boy under sharp brows. "Myyycroft," he whispered, and just like that the boy had his full attention. Sebastian all but disappeared, as did the presence of men Jim knew would be loitering just outside the building. "How clever of you…trumping my ambush with one of your own. Just to get to little old me?" He stretched his neck toward the boy, eyelids lowering and putting on a fake show of pleasure. "I'm flattered," he breathed.

"You should be. But you aren't, not yet. You don't handle defeat very gracefully." Mycroft stepped closer, circling Jim, eyes raking over his bound form. Considering. "I've gone to a lot of trouble to be able to talk to you in person, privately, without you having the upper hand and taking my choice away." The boy's free hand darted out, began to touch. Slid over the smooth fabric of Jim's suit, almost like Mycroft couldn't quite help himself.

Jim drew a breath and held it, Mycroft’s hand so familiar, and so unexpected. The feigned expression fell away, as did most everything from his face, but if Mycroft watched carefully, there was a trace of longing under Jim's lowered lashes. His eyes closed for a moment, lips parting. "You have indeed," Jim said softly, "Which means this is your only chance." He breathed, just feeling the boy's fingers tracing the folds of cloth over his stomach, up his chest. "Come to see me off personally, have you?"

"Off?" Mycroft laughed. The sound was warm, amused, but his expression never changed. The boy might as well have been wearing a mask. Perhaps, in a way, he was. "Ah, the gun. I had to get rid of the guards, you see. It's careless to leave loose ends." Mycroft's hand caught Jim's chin at the same moment their eyes met. The boy licked his lips, then leaned up on the balls of his feet and claimed Jim's mouth.

The man gasped into the kiss. He hadn't been expecting that, either. In testament to how much Jim really had been holding inside, a tremor of tension ran down his back, making him sag into the chains. They parted and Jim looked dazed. In that split second, behind the bloodshot eyes and tired posture, Mycroft saw Jim split open. Longing and desperation hid behind the thin layer of his expression. Jim's dark eyes looked down into his own. The man bent his head, leaning down as far as he could to get close to the boy again, which didn't help very much. "And what exactly do you have in store for _me_?"

"That depends on how you answer. Text is such a tricky thing. Teasing out the real meaning and intentions behind a bunch of letters on a screen can be an onerous task. Far simpler to just have a talk, face to face." Small fingers stroked down the side of Jim's face, and Mycroft's eyes lit up in pleasure when Jim leaned into the touch.

"Your task is to convince me. I am here, reasonably whole again. I won't be as easy to trick as a twelve year old boy." Mycroft's fingers slid into Jim's hair, then tightened painfully, wrenching the man's head at an awkward angle. " _Convince me_. And you will apologize. For advantages taken and assumptions made, and your willingness to subject me to experiments just so you could keep your _toy_."

Slowly, laughter bubbled up in Jim's throat. It was bitter, hysterical, and a little angry. He rolled his head back to look at the boy. "This is the first time I've gotten to see you, you know, after the change." His eyes sharpened, giving Mycroft the suspicion he was being intensely observed and analyzed. "I wonder…." Jim whispered thoughtfully, "Is that you, still in there? Do you _want_ to be convinced? Do you _want_ to come back to me, if you could?"

"If it wasn't me, I wouldn't have bothered with this. I wouldn't have even permitted you a chance. You would be dead, or rotting away in the medical equivalent of an oubliette." Mycroft stepped back and folded his arms. "...as you told me, once, 'don't get cocky'. I've beaten you at your own game. We are equal. What remains to be seen is whether you would treat me as such, if I go with you."

Mycroft was difficult, almost impossible to read. His body was visibly tense, but gave no hints as to why. His facial expressions, even his eyes, were shuttered and neutral, only flickers of emotion escaping every now and again since he'd entered the room. The fact that he'd shown any emotional at all was a testament, perhaps, to its intensity.

Jim smiled back, as though he couldn't help it even if it had a bitter edge. "' _Relieved_ ' is the word I'd use." Finally, Jim was still. He stared at Mycroft as though he wanted to memorize him, but the expressiveness had fallen away from his own features. "You are upset with me, aren't you?" He laughed at the obviousness. "That I took what I wanted from you and manipulated you in the beginning, when I would have as soon as killed you. Ah yes, you would have every right to be. But tell me," Jim's voice dropped to a whisper. "do you think that changed? I had told you my intentions from the start. But, dear _muirnin_ , do you think that they remained the same in the end? Do you _still_ think so, when I have allowed myself to come _here_ , **tied up, by _you_?** " He was screaming at the end, in full fury.

"You allowed nothing. I set the trap with bait I didn't think you'd refuse, and you didn't prove me wrong." Mycroft tilted his head and examined Jim's flushed skin, the slight heave of his chest. "You are right about one thing. I am upset with you."

Mycroft began pacing again, circling around Jim. The man's screams, even if they were rage-fuelled, had only reminded him of just how... hungry he felt. Hollow in the center. He broke stride only to set his handgun down out of the way. "You still haven't apologized. Not for any of that, or for breaking barriers I'd worked so hard to construct and maintain. I don't even know if you're aware of what you've truly done." The boy stopped directly behind Jim, wrapping his arms around the man's slender frame. His nails dug into Jim's skin, even through the layers of clothing. _Wanting_. "You react so poorly to the experience of being helpless."

Jim sighed softly. The lithe muscles in his back relaxed against the boy's chest. "Oh, Mycroft…" The words fell from his mouth softly as drops of water. "I will never apologize for breaking that wall in your mind. No matter how much you hate me, I would rather live in a world with someone like me, truly, than not."

They made such a picture together, there like that. Mycroft's cheek pressed to the curve of Jim's spine. The man's head hung between his shoulders, lost in the memory of them. Sebastian watched nearly in reverence to the sheer intensity of them, not daring to speak.

"It was absolutely selfish of me," Jim smiled, "but I found you, I broke away your shell, and you, you were so like me, in a way no one else in the world ever was, not even your brother. _You were me_ , and I had you, only one person, who understood. And I will _never_ apologize for that."

" _You have made it so I cannot stop._ " Mycroft's words were a harsh, broken rasp, more fitting for an adult than a boy. It was almost obscene to hear such a tone produced from a child's body. "I have done terrible things to my brother because of you. And it wasn't _enough_." Mycroft suddenly released Jim, then moved until they faced one another again. A demonic gleam had lit up the boy's eyes, transforming him into one of the fallen. He pressed against Jim, slowly coming unraveled. Small fingers began to unbutton Jim's shirt.

"I cut into him and it wasn't enough. Not without more, without damage that can't heal, without killing. I came to a realization." Cloth parted, and Mycroft's hands slid against Jim's bared skin. "It was an addiction that I wasn't going to win against. Particularly because I didn't want to. You can imagine how this limits the... choices available to me."

Jim closed his eyes, the longing spiked within him, missing Mycroft's touch. But the undercurrent was not lost on him.

"I can." Jim already understood at least three different ways this could go, and strongly suspected which Mycroft was leaning toward. When he opened his eyes again, Mycroft was observing him hungrily. When Jim had woken to find himself chained and Mycroft not, he had expected the odds were in favor of his death. Once again, that would seem so. "And now you have me," Jim whispered with a taunting lilt on the edge of his voice, "Why not show me how _desperate_ you are?"

Jim's words struck a chord in Mycroft. His eyes visibly darkened as he stared up at Jim. Another flicker of a smile touched his mouth. He stepped back abruptly, leaving only cool air where his hands had been. "Ne pas aller n'importe où, ma chérie," he intoned, giving Jim a wink before disappearing into the darkness of the warehouse.

Minutes crawled by, and Mycroft was carrying a small bundle when he returned. He set it down on the floor in front of Jim and dipped one hand inside. It came back holding a blade. Mycroft's expression was a mix of intense focus and lust. After a moment's study, he began to make incisions in Jim's jacket and shirt. A few cuts here and there, one strong tug, and the man's upper body was bare. Mycroft pressed a brief kiss against Jim's chest. "You might recall a promise you made me, once," he murmured. The boy's hands had drifted lower and begun to undo Jim's trousers. "I wonder if you can remember."

Jim's body was showing interest. The beating of his heart picked up and his skin heated when Mycroft's hands brushed against it. He even stirred when the boy brushed against the front of his trousers before pulling them down his hips. Jim's lashes lowered, his full lips parted.

"If you can take me, you can have me."

Mycroft hummed in agreement. He knelt briefly to cut through the bindings around Jim's feet. "Of course, given your current position, I'm going to need a bit of assistance." The boy glanced upward, trying to gauge Jim's reaction. His own tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Jim rolled his head, chin resting on his collar bone and then slipping sideways to watch the boy. "What did you have in mind?" Jim asked softly, the characteristic lilt back in his voice and a tiny smile pulling at his lips.

Though Sebastian was as silent as he could be, all but melting into the background, Jim could _feel_ the tension radiating off the man as he watched. He wasn't so sure where Mycroft intended to go with this, and Jim was often too careless with his own mortality.

"That depends on how willing you are." Mycroft knelt again and revealed the rest of the contents of the bundle - a container with lubricant, a dildo of fairly standard size, and a strap.

"You seemed resistant to the idea of reciprocation before." Mycroft's voice was soft and confident, but his eyes were wary. "You're also strung up too high for my current height. If you're not going to behave if I let you down, I'll just have to make do manually."

Jim's bark of laughter split the silence. Even Seb jumped. It bounced off the high walls before Jim let it taper off into a chuckle, and then he switched just as suddenly, face falling, hands gripping the chain above him and jerking it wildly while he snarled at the boy. "I'd do just about anything to _touch you_." His voice was a raw hiss. His lip twitched into a parody of a smile. "So why don't you let me down and we'll see?"

"Remember what you're supposed to be doing." Mycroft's grey eyes were sharp with warning. "You're proving I can trust you. I'll be making my decision based on how persuasive you are. Convince me that you consider me an equal - not a toy, not a pet, not a kid - and that you won't betray and backstab me the first chance you get. You do this, and I'll come with you. Permanently, so long as you don't give me a reason to run."

Jim stilled. The air in his lungs rattled, a hollow echo of the chains above his head, as it left him in one slow breath. His mouth didn't want to close all the way, now that Mycroft had laid his plans bare.

"Come here," Jim whispered.

Compared to his laugh, the words were tiny and hollow in the vastness around them, but when Mycroft took a small step closer, Jim stared into him. Those black eyes looked at him like he were something Jim had never encountered before, like the criminal had been expecting a battle. Instead, he was faced with a calm assertion of power, and something even greater beneath it… a longing, to match his own.

Jim stood. "Let me down."

Mycroft didn't stir for a long moment. He stared back at Jim, trying to discern the intent hidden behind his shadowed gaze. At long last he moved - slowly, dreamlike, away from Jim. He retrieved a small ladder and set it up beside the criminal, then climbed. The boy sighed and ran his fingers over Jim's bound hands, admiring the knot work against the man's skin.

Mycroft's knife cut through the rope in a matter of seconds.

Jim's hands hung in the air for a moment. In elation, his eyes closed and a small breath escaped his mouth before his arms came down like wings. He rubbed one wrist while his gaze drifted back up the boy on the ladder who was watching him cautiously. He leaned into Mycroft, hands resting over the boy's small hips, and looked up into grey eyes. Fingers drew up until one of Jim's hands was cupping the back of Mycroft's head, drawing him down, while Jim leaned up and kissed him.

A shiver ran through the boy, grey eyes wide in wonder and disbelief. Part of Mycroft hadn't been expecting Jim to keep his word - had expected him to lie, even in his core. He pressed back against Jim, returning his kiss and descending back to the ground.

Jim understood now. This hadn't just been about beating him at his own game. It had been about Mycroft retaining his agency, his ability to choose, and giving himself the perfect setup to choose whatever he wanted.

Mycroft knew what he wanted. He just had to see whether it was even possible.

Mycroft’s fingers wrapped around Jim's cock through the cloth of his pants and squeezed once in warning. Jim had once chance at this.

Jim gave a sharp hiss, but he came to life in the boy's hand. He followed Mycroft as he moved, hands at the boy's shoulders, running down his back, over his hips, and for once, Jim was silent. His fingers were everywhere, like they'd missed him, until eventually they wound up in his hair. He pulled Mycroft into another kiss before murmuring against his mouth, "Where do you want me?"

"Everywhere," Mycroft murmured back, mouth curling slightly for a moment. "But for now... unroll that." He gestured toward the bundle he'd brought into the room. "This will be easier if you're lying down, and the floor is going to be cold, otherwise.

Mycroft waited for Jim to comply before he began working on his own clothing. He glanced over towards Sebastian as he stripped. The bodyguard had been surprisingly quiet thus far.

He was at least calmer than he had been, and though he'd worked at the knot at his hands while they'd conversed, using silence and their distraction to his advantage, he'd given up and was now watching in open awe of the switch that had taken place.

Jim gave the other man a little smirk. "Shut up, Sebastian."

The man hadn't said a word, but he snorted at that. Perhaps Jim could hear him thinking.

Mycroft shook his head and tossed his shirt aside with his jacket, then began to work on his trousers. Seb could wait, and he seemed content to do so. Jim commanded far more of his attention at the moment, particularly with the way he was staring. One would have thought it hadn't been merely a few days. Perhaps Jim had thought that he'd never get to see Mycroft like this again.

Trousers and pants joined the rest of the boy's clothing on the floor. Mycroft fingered the spot right over his heart, now smooth and scarless. It would be a long time before he stopped being surprised that the mark was gone for good.

"It's the strangest thing," he said quietly as he knelt beside Jim. Jim's hands had settled on his skin again, hungry, but Mycroft didn't mind. "I remember everything being a few days ago, but also being twenty years ago at the same time. And longer, like you've been present for most of my life, even though I know that's not the case."

Jim's lips smiled against the freckles at his shoulder. The man's teeth grazed along it. "I'd like to think I have." Whether Jim referred to the unique sameness between them or simply the idea of instilling such a profound presence on the boy was left open, but his response was enthusiastic. Jim pulled Mycroft into him. As desperate as he was, he reveled in every inch of skin he could touch, and it made sense then that Jim hadn't thought he would get Mycroft back. One way or another - to memories, to family and duty and the old repression, to simple revulsion – Jim had thought he would lose the Mycroft he had come to know.

He had not expected the boy to have carried Jim with him. If Mycroft had to grow up, Jim would prefer it this way.

Enthusiastic as Jim was, it took Mycroft longer to return his touches with the same intensity. A sort of cautious hesitance seemed to be instilled in him in layers, slowly getting peeled away piece by piece as he grew more confident. Eventually he wound his fingers through Jim's hair and tugged sharply, pulling Jim away. "Lay down." Mycroft reached for the small bottle with his free hand. He'd waited long enough.

Jim's head lowered, but his dark eyes remained fixed on Mycroft. He gave one last nip at the boy's lower lip before complying.

Jim leaned back slowly, muscles in his stomach tightening to accommodate his balance before his back hit the ground. He laid his arms as his sides and turned his head to look up at the boy. This was a very unusual position for Jim, Mycroft could tell - at least, not when he wasn't playing someone else. Though his multiple personas had possibly been more willing to bottom in his past schemes, it was very likely that Jim had never done this as himself, with guards lowered.

The thought made Mycroft's expression soften ever so slightly. The boy leaned down, exploring the planes of Jim's stomach while he coated his fingers. By the time one slick digit was circling the man's entrance, he'd scooted back and pressed a kiss at the base of Jim's cock.

It was bizarre, truly, for Jim to see a knowing gaze staring up at him - an older soul trapped within a youth's form. Bizarre, but not unwelcome. While Mycroft now lacked the wide-eyed innocence he'd had when Jim had first caught hold of him, it had been replaced with a burning intensity that seemed to have fixated on the criminal.

Mycroft slowly ran his tongue up Jim's length and circled the head while the first finger slipped in.

Jim released a breath and let his head fall back. The boy's fingers were so small that he barely felt it once it was there, but missing his hot little tongue was impossible. The man's fingers stroked Mycroft's head encouragingly, willing him to keep his mouth right there.

Jim was watching him now, head propped up by one arm. He even parted his thighs wider, just to see the satisfaction on Mycroft's face while he was crouched over Jim.

It wasn't easy to anticipate what would be different and what would be the same about Mycroft now, but already Jim could pick out subtle expressions and unconscious movements that he recognized in the boy.

Familiar as some things were, Jim still had to watch closely. Enthusiastic as Mycroft was, he was still... flat, in some respects. When Mycroft glanced up and their eyes met, Jim couldn't quite see down into his core anymore. Years of caution and fear, newly restored, had brought back his instinctive reflexes to hide and shield himself. The fire that had crackled so brightly in the youth had turned to banked and buried embers - still alive, but barely.

Mycroft swallowed the head of Jim's cock and added another finger, somehow managing to retain a haughty expression all the while. Perhaps it wasn't too late to resurrect the fire yet.

Jim's groan echoed through the expanse. His head hit the floor. He managed to keep himself from thrusting up, but he couldn't quite keep his hands out of Mycroft's hair. The boy knew exactly what he was doing and still Jim tried to encourage him. If he could see the signs of what was smoldering beneath Mycroft's resistance, Jim knew he could bring it out again. His boy, his little Mycroft Holmes, all lost and alone and wanting, was still there.

Between breaths, Jim flashed him a playful grin in return.

Mycroft made a noise of impatience at the sight. Pleasant as it was to see Jim happy, Mycroft wanted more. He wanted the man surprised, wanted him vulnerable, wanting to see Jim like nobody else had and nobody else _would_.

The boy shot him a sly look, then changed his angle and sank down. And down, focused and opening his throat up to take Jim deeper than he'd ever attempted before. The look on Jim's face was reward enough for displaying this small part of his regained knowledge, and he took advantage of Jim's distraction to continue preparing him.

Jim was really gasping, jaw slack and nearly a perfectly round "o", by the time he had the coherency to speak again. " _My_ , the things you've learned while I was away. Don't tell me you practiced _that_ on your brother." Jim was _definitely_ goading him. If Mycroft was going to push him, show Jim what he could do, then Jim was going to push back.

Mycroft's gaze grew sharp, and he let his teeth scrape across the tender skin as he pulled off of Jim. "Watch your mouth, or I'll show you just how much I remember. I don't have to worry about pretenses and legality and the evidence that's left behind anymore." The boy's fingers twisted, reached, finally circled around the right spot.

Jim's laugh was cut short by a cry of pleasure when the boy teased over his prostate. His hips lifted and his toes curled, trying to make him do it again when all Mycroft would do was taunt him with a slow slide, never quite giving him the stroke he wanted.

"Oh, I do hope you show me," Jim rasped and slowed his breathing. Obviously, he didn't mean for Mycroft to demonstrate on himself. Narrowed grey eyes watched from Mycroft's perch at his hips. It was amazing how he could still look proper under the circumstances. "There are things I can't _wait_ to do with you." Jim could only be referring to his work, but that had yet to be discussed.

"Impatient," Mycroft chided softly, but the slight curve to his mouth said that he found it endearing. "There's time. I haven't had much of a chance to adjust yet, nor have I slept for the past few days. You, I suspect, also kept running on empty once I left."

The boy grew quiet and thoughtful again, teasing Jim one more time before retrieving his fingers and reaching for the straps that would hold the toy. His attempt at decorum failed as he fumbled with untangling the contraption.

Jim sat up and took hold of Mycroft's wrists. He wasn't laughing anymore. His hands were steady as he moved a strap and took the dildo out of its holster, separating it from the straps and handing it to the boy. He leaned forward and whispered against the boy's ear. "Why don't you work up to that, hm?"

Mycroft was doing everything he could to make this work, but Jim knew he was going to have a difficult time coming to terms with how much he'd lost, at least for another year or so. Even if Jim didn't mind.

Mycroft accepted it in silence. His hands worked on coating and preparing the toy, but he barely looked at it. The boy's attention was fixed on Jim, inscrutible as he looked for... _something_. "I'm going to need your assistance," he finally whispered back. They both knew he was talking about more than merely their immediate situation. Even with his brief tastes of freedom and a temporary return to innocence, Mycroft was going to have a lifetime's worth of habits to unlearn, old ways for an old life that would no longer apply.

Mycroft guided Jim back down. He waited until the older man was settled before pressing the head of the toy against his entrance. "...ready?"

Jim's teeth flashed. "Yes."

His dark eyes never left Mycroft's. His hips lifted. Across the room, Seb shifted. Every minute sound resounded through the silence of the warehouse until, finally, Mycroft pushed. Jim's back straightened as he let Mycroft slide it in slowly. Slicked with lube, it was easy, and Jim knew how to press back against him, opening up and allowing more and more of the intrusion. By the time it was seated deep in him, his mouth hung slack. He didn't appear to be in any pain. Mycroft had used adequate lube, and if the boy recalled the time Jim had let Seb do this to him briefly when they'd fought, he'd barely expressed pain even then.

A muscle twitched in Mycroft's jaw as he watched Jim arch and open himself up for him. The sight brought a flare of possessiveness to the surface, accompanied with a certain amount of regret. "I wish I did not find myself subject to such limitations," he sighed. A slow thrust with his wrist, forward and back, provoked little reaction. "Are you alright?"

Jim's eyes closed and a small smile graced his features. He shifted his hips in a way that looked more like a wiggle, knees bent and raised slightly, palms flat on the ground. Even if it wasn't designed to be, though with Jim there was little question it was, the subtle motion was quite a tease. "Mycroft, _move_."

Mycroft's lips parted in surprise. A moment later he started moving in earnest. Close observation while he experimented let him find just the right angle, if the way Jim's stomach muscles tightened were anything to go by. He kept the thrusts relatively slow, but steady. While not as pleasurable as it could have been, at least for his own part, there was something to be said about being able to manipulate another person's body like this. Stimulating in a mental and aesthetical way that was only furthered by the emotional bond that had formed between them.

A tricky hand maneuver allowed Mycroft to coat his other hand before he wrapped his fingers around Jim's cock and began stroking him in time.

Jim shivered and gasped. His back arched and he rolled his hips into the touch and rocked in counterpoint to the thing sliding inside him. He'd laid himself bare, rutting against the motion of Mycroft's hands, both of them. "Is this what you wanted to see?" Jim asked, shaky from the pleasure and the slow as the burn inside him, "Wanted me beneath you… coming apart?" Mycroft could have done or asked for anything then and Jim might have given it, either in desperation for the boy's touch again, or to pass Mycroft's test.

"I want to see you give yourself over," Mycroft replied, watching in rapt fascination. "To see that I have access to every part of you, can see all of you. That you'll give and take."

Jim was one of the most gorgeous creatures Mycroft had ever seen, right at that moment - desperate, hungry, _his_. The boy's breathing quickened as a hunger of his own stirred. While it had only been a few days since they'd last been together, part of Mycroft also felt like two decades had passed since he'd last been touched. Skewed perspectives on time made it torturous to watch Jim's pleasure, knowing he wasn't physically capable of topping him.

Mycroft's hand's stilled. He slid the toy free and set it aside, then held out his arms in a silent request. "...please."

Jim's hands were on him instantly, grasping his wrists and pulling Mycroft down with him. He landed on Jim's stomach, hard cock jutting between them and strong arms wrapping around his back. Jim went for his mouth, but paused when Mycroft was barely close enough. Behind pale lashes and an ashen red fringe of hair, the hardness in Mycroft's gaze was gone, melted down with only weariness left behind. Weariness and a vulnerability he had not possessed as an adult, or at least hadn’t shown to anyone as an adult.

"I'm here," Jim whispered against his mouth, so softly he might not have said it at all, before he kissed the boy.

Mycroft returned the kiss, soft and hesitant at first, slowly building towards an intensity that hadn't been there a few days ago. Compacted into a few hours, he'd relived years of loneliness, denial, and bloody betrayal that had nearly proven fatal. He wanted what he'd had with Jim before. He knew that Jim wanted him, but he needed the reassurance of _feeling_ it, knowing that the world wasn't going to suddenly drop out beneath his feet again, leaving him struggling to survive and protect himself. "I need you to fuck me."

Jim rolled them. He ended up on top of the boy, Mycroft's back pressed to the thin blanket over the ground. Jim pressed against him, but he was careful with his weight. He kissed the boy hungrily, and Mycroft could feel Jim's heart beating against his, their combined anticipation ramping up with every move Jim made. If the man understood the intent behind Mycroft's request, he answered with licks and kisses and a hand pressed to Mycroft's growing erection between them. Jim stroked along the boy's soft belly until he found what he wanted and reveled in Mycroft's soft hitch of breath and the sharp cry that followed. Every stroke, every kiss, every bite, and groan whispered over and over again _"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here."_

Mycroft arched underneath Jim's touch and teeth, inviting more, encouraging him with hands that stroked down the older man's sides and pulled him closer. Jim was still too far away, and Mycroft couldn't quite release his grip on his shields and let him in, no matter how much he wanted to. He settled for heated kisses, trying to touch and taste and claim as much of Jim as he could reach.

The cap of the lube clicked open and then Jim's hand was against him again, sliding over his little cock and down and down until Jim had a finger slipping between his cheeks, brushing over the tight ring of muscle hidden there. This was familiar. They had done this a dozen times, if not more, in the days Mycroft had spent with Jim and Sebastian. But it was new, too. Jim had never done it with _this_ Mycroft, and though Mycroft was not a different person, all the times before and this time now were, paradoxically, both different and the same. The boy's body, the way his fingers clutched around Jim's arms, the way he rubbed and twisted underneath the man, were new and familiar at the same time.

Jim had had enough teasing. He pushed his finger inside and stroked exactly the way he wanted to, the way he knew would make Mycroft shiver.

The boy's hips lifted in response and a quiet moan escaped his lips. Mycroft was experiencing the same paradox - Jim's body and actions were familiar, but viewed through a distorted perception of time, layered over the ghosts of other lovers. Jim was the man who'd kidnapped him at his weakest, and the man he'd tortured and interrogated in a military prison, and the man who'd somehow cracked him open and changed everything in between those two points in time.

Mycroft hissed as he felt a second finger penetrate him, but it was welcome. _Wanted_.

"I can tell what you're thinking." Jim pressed their mouths together and _smiled_. He was relentless in the way he was working the boy open, like he could sense Mycroft's desperation… like he could match it with his own. And maybe that was truly why he had been able to read Mycroft so well when the boy was with him and when he'd been open, not particularly because of Jim's observational prowess, but because Jim knew his own mind. And he knew what was buried in the deepest levels of Mycroft's.

"Can you? Can you really?" Mycroft's voice was rough with need. He didn't doubt Jim could sense _that_ , but the criminal hardly knew his entire history, much less the moments that had haunted him for most of his life.

It didn't matter, really. He was going to get exactly what he wanted, with Jim. That had been the idea that had persisted through the last few days, cut through the doubts and fear and depression. He didn't have to go back to his glass cage, half-alive and untouchable. Jim had become a piece of himself, shown him another way to live, and Mycroft didn't want to refuse.

Jim's lips pressed to his throat, mouthing kisses there. Three fingers were buried in Mycroft now. "When you're like this, so close to me," and Jim didn't mean just physically, "I don't have to deduce you." Not like Sherlock did. It was impossible for Jim to know every secret and every detail in Mycroft's life, but right then, he knew what the boy wanted.

His fingers pulled free and he spread Mycroft's knees, lowering down to press himself between them, rubbing their lower bodies together in a delicious little spike of friction. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft's lower back, raising the boy's hips to meet him.

Mycroft gripped Jim's arms for support and pulled himself closer, impaling himself as the head of Jim's cock slipped inside. The slight burning sensation was familiar and comforting, in its own way, but brought no relief. Mycroft hummed low in his throat and caught hold of Jim's hips, bringing him deeper until the older man was fully seated in him. The boy's head fell back against the blanket, all half-lidded eyes and a messy tangle of red curls. "...I missed you."

Jim bent over him, keeping himself balanced on one elbow over Mycroft's head. He laughed, breathy with pleasure, and ran his thumb over the boy's soft lips. "You too."

When he began to move, they both shuddered. Slowly at first, as Jim wanted to remember every bit of the boy's body, every freckle, every blush, the curve of his nose, the dip in his collar bone, the jut of his hip. He wanted Mycroft to remember it, too: the way Jim's fingers and cock could make him gasp and cry, and the way Jim's body felt pressed to his, even the way his gaze felt when he cast it on Mycroft.

A blush spread across the boy's cheeks, trailing down his neck to his chest. Mycroft's reactions were more subdued than Jim remembered. His hips tilted and he wrapped his legs around Jim's waist, only encouraging Jim to move. His hands curled into fists against the blankets. Stress from the last few days, compounded by lack of sleep and his ever-present fears, finally had Mycroft falling to pieces now that he'd relaxed his guard even minutely.

Jim's hands held Mycroft's face and ran down his neck while the man pushed into him. He pressed their foreheads together as he moved, something he had done before, but something that he needed to do again just to keep the boy grounded to him, fixed on Jim instead of floating away in the clash of the present versus his memories. The boy's soft grey eyes stared back at him, guarded but wanting… _wanting_ to lower those shields. And Mycroft was writhing against him so deliciously, his small thighs pressed tight around Jim. Every move the boy made, muscles clenching and relaxing, Jim could feel as he pushed in and out.

Mycroft's body welcomed him in; his mind was another matter. Jim could still read the surface of him and guess at what lay beneath, with how similar they were, but there were locked doors that were refusing to open. Even for Jim, no matter how hungry Mycroft was for connection. The boy's gaze stayed fixed on Jim, never breaking eye contact. Not even when Jim hit just the right angle, causing Mycroft's body to tighten around him.

Mycroft wanted to feel claimed, wanted. He was tired of being alone, tired of hiding and obeying and denying and still feeling monstrous - the machine that did its civic duty and was put away, uncherished and ignored.

Jim shoved forward roughly, and Mycroft's back arched, shoulders sliding against the ground and bunching the blanket under him. It gave him just enough of a surprise that Jim did it again. And again, until Jim's arms were wrapping around him and hoisting him up into the man's lap to hold him in place, and Jim was nearly snarling with the pleasure of it. He brought Mycroft down while he pushed up, and there was nothing soft or slow about it any longer.

Jim wanted to see the spark in those cold eyes, and he nearly had. He bared his teeth and whispered against the boy's ear. " _You will never…ever…fucking leave me again._ "

Mycroft writhed and struggled against Jim's grip. His mouth curled into a snarl and a grunt of pain turned into sharp, humorless laughter. "I'll stay... because I _want_... to stay. You cannot control me." He'd played by others' rules for long enough, given over years of his life in service and subordination. Jim got his wish; a stubborn, angry light filled the boy and turned his nails to claws against Jim's skin. "Nobody's ever controlling me again."

Jim didn't argue, he _grinned_. "Ah, there you are!" His arms wrapped tighter and thrust up again. Jim's back arched where the boy's sharp nails buried themselves. He moved with them when they dragged downward, almost letting Mycroft drive his motion.

The man pulled Mycroft as close as he could, as close as he could fit the boy against him and still thrust inside. Mycroft was all heat and petulance, even if the fire inside him was a cold one, but Jim stoked it all the same.

Maybe, they could be free together.

Jim's actions just made Mycroft want him more, summoning another irrational wave of possessiveness. Mycroft refused to be controlled, but he wanted Jim. Wanted to own him, have him, protect him and keep the man all to himself. The boy pressed against him, intent on wiping the smirk from Jim's mouth.

Then Jim's hand drifted, pressed the flesh just to one side of Mycroft's left shoulder blade. The boy's eyes widened in mindless uncontrollable fear, the sort that grips men just before they know they're going to meet a sudden, violent end. His small body went completely rigid.

Jim’s hands latched around his upper arms when he reeled back and caught him. Everything stilled - Jim buried in him, Mycroft frozen, caught in the middle of pulling away. Jim had no weapon, he made no move to attack, but he wasn't moving at all, either.

Jim's eyes searched Mycroft’s face. His hands held strong, but he tentatively stroked his thumbs against Mycroft's arms. Jim couldn't have known what had happened to him, but his quick mind was piecing the puzzle together by the second. "Shh…," he whispered, "I'm not here to hurt you."

Mycroft inhaled sharply and snapped out of the flashback. Shame and red, hot rage coursed through him, overwhelming enough to break through all his carefully constructed shields - even the ones that kept partitions of his mind away from himself. Something dark and wild slunk to the forefront and peered out at Jim. He pushed suddenly with his feet, toppling them over. Once he was on top of Jim he began to move again, rising up and letting himself sink back down on Jim's cock. " _Don't. Touch. There_ ," he hissed.

Jim snarled back. He caught Mycroft's wrist and pulled the boy down, struggling and bent over him, but Mycroft didn't stop moving and, angry as the boy was, it was still sending spikes of lust through Jim. He drove his hips up to meet the boy when Mycroft wasn't shoving them down again with his weight. Jim's hands landed on his hips, teeth clenched, trying to hold on. He glared up at Mycroft. There was an idea forming behind his black eyes, and when Jim Moriarty got an idea, it was usually not a good thing. "Let me."

"No." All his body could remember was the bite of a blade sliding home next to the bone. Especially when he was like this. Mycroft didn't relish even a short visitation to that particular memory for the sake of Jim's pleasure. His spine was arched in an angry line. "I'm not doing that again."

Jim's eyes narrowed and Jim surged up. He wrapped an arm around Mycroft's lower back and locked them together, but it stilled their motion.

"Don't do it for me," Jim whispered, nose brushing Mycroft's, lips moving at the corner of his mouth. Jim's free hand trailed fingers over his rapidly pulsing heart, just next to where the wound would have been. "Do it for yourself. Let me in."

Even that much had Mycroft shifting uneasily. "I nearly died. What you're asking would not be pleasant. For either of us." Jim's fingers burned against his skin, and his too-dark eyes seemed large enough to pull him under to drown in their black depths. Or his own nightmares.

"Live with me and you will nearly die any day. That's the nature of life. But it won't be by my hand." Jim didn't move. He pressed his temple to Mycroft's and leaned into him. Mycroft was so much smaller, but Jim was a sneaking, insistently persuasive presence, not an overpowering one. "Let it go."

"You aren't going to like what you find." Mycroft couldn't, _couldn't_ let it go. The memory had refused to be banished, despite years of trying to forget. The ghost of the trauma had clung to him as persistently as the scar had to his skin, reminding him that it was foolish to ever trust, forming a barrier between himself and everyone else he'd ever considered befriending. He'd never dared to let himself hope for anything more. Alone had been what he had, because alone had protected him.

"Little loneliness is a small price to pay for freedom," Jim said, and well he knew it, but his eyes were unyielding. "But you made me want you, and now I want all of you. I came back for you…" Jim whispered, moving to Mycroft's ear, "I put myself in your range, and you caught me. I was ready to die at your hands today, Mycroft. Tell me I don't deserve a little piece of you in return."

"Don't belittle the risks I took. I knew there was a chance my plan wouldn't work, or that I'd be killed in the chase." Uncertainty gripped Mycroft. He was reluctant to show his weaknesses, much less ones that ran deep through his core. It seemed counterintuitive to survival. Triggering the memory could cause a number of reactions, none of them pretty. Part of him feared rejection even now, even after Jim had driven himself to the edge in his attempt to get Mycroft back. "You won't want what you see."

Jim pressed his face to the crook of Mycroft's neck. His breath tickled under Mycroft’s ear, and when Jim shifted his hips, he moved inside the boy's body. "For once, I'm not attacking you, Mycroft. This is not a test. I want to be closer to you than your own skin. I want you to open up to me. I want to see all of you. It doesn't matter whether I like it. I want. Every. Part."

As tense as he was, Mycroft was still impossibly soft in Jim's arms. His lips brushed the boy's neck when he spoke, just to feel it.

Mycroft swallowed, skin moving underneath Jim's lips. What Jim was asking was more intimate than what they had done before, were doing now - he was naked, penetrated, letting the older man have his body, but Jim was asking to reach into the darkest corners of Mycroft's mind and claim everything. Things that he'd never shared with anyone. "I don't know if I can let you in without it being forced," he admitted in a whisper. "This is difficult enough as it is. I've locked things away for so long that it's not entirely a conscious decision anymore."

Jim drew back to look at him, holding the boy's cheeks in his hands. "It happened while you were intimate before, didn't it?" he asked. His hands had brushed the boy's shoulder before, he'd even seen John do it after Mycroft's memories had returned, without negative reaction. Not until now. "When I touch you, and we do this," Jim pressed his hand to Mycroft's lower back, "You'll come out of it alive, unharmed…and safe."

"He waited two years." The boy's eyes had gone distant, looking at a face that didn't exist anymore but in memory. "Two years to build trust and get into a position where he was certain he'd succeed in the kill. That we'd be left alone together and I wouldn't expect anything. It was just another day, but that day he had a knife. It was a fluke that he missed, another fluke that I didn't just bleed out on the floor."

Jim's thumb drew over Mycroft's cheek while the boy stared through him. His other arm lowered to Mycroft's back and he eased the boy down on the floor again, side by side, still wrapped in one another. His hand slid slowly up Mycroft's back and his eyes asked something of Mycroft he had not given to anyone else again, ever. "Trust me."

Mycroft gazed back, uncertainty turning his eyes a cloudy grey. He wasn't worried about Jim killing him, but about his own ability to handle whatever the flashback would do to him... and how Jim would react to the fallout. He shivered and finally, after a long moment of hesitation, nodded once in assent.

Jim thrust again between his legs, slowly, and Mycroft felt fingertips drift closer. His entire frame began to tense up even before Jim reached the right spot. When pressure was applied again, just before Jim hit his left shoulder blade, the boy's spine went rigid. He couldn't suppress a small cry, fear combining with memories of terrible pain. His eyes shut against the tears that threatened to spill over.

Jim's thrusts didn't stop. Instead, they quickened. His hand splayed out over the boy's back, feeling slight bone and muscle shift under such smooth skin. The boy wrenched against him violently, but Jim's embrace turned solid, holding Mycroft against him forcibly. Jim kissed his brow and sank into him with sharp thrusts, intent on getting just that little bit deeper and deeper still, all while his arms locked Mycroft in a vice like grip and salty tears fell between them.

Mycroft was having difficulty holding onto reality. He was in two places at once, hemorrhaging blood and yet whole, wanting to escape and locked tight to Jim's side. The phantom taste of copper filled his mouth. He struggled and Jim only fucked him harder, holding him in place. Mycroft was tense enough that he could feel every inch sliding in and out.

He tried screaming, but all he could manage was a frightened whimper.

Mycroft was shaking so badly in Jim's arms he could feel the trembling all the way down to his dick. His breath was coming in heavy pants and his thrusts were getting more forceful by the minute, and Mycroft's helplessness wasn't a deterrent. But, Jim leaned to the boy's ear and gave a harsh tug to the boy's thoughts. "Hurt me, Mycroft," he whispered, nails scratching over the back of Mycroft's shoulder, "You remember this? You are in so much pain, aren't you?" Pain that Jim was causing, tearing it out of his chest and memory. "Give it back to me, all of it."

Mycroft remembered. The shock and betrayal, and the way it had turned into a desperate sort of rage. That he hadn't expected to live through the ordeal, but had been determined to make his lover pay for his deed. Blackness welled up and took hold.

The shift in the boy was sudden, quiet submission turning into particularly vicious anger. Mycroft didn't hold back, ripping bloody furrows into Jim's skin with his nails. His teeth sunk into the older man's chest, and the phantom tang of blood in his mouth became reality. Jim wasn't completely Jim anymore - he was also Andy, resurrected, vulnerable.

Mycroft wanted to rip his heart out and watch the light go out of his eyes. He'd been denied his revenge before.

They tumbled over, Mycroft throwing his weight into Jim and landing the man on his back while he let out a howl. It echoed through the room and tapered off into delight. Jim had to force an arm between Mycroft's teeth and his neck to keep the boy away from that vulnerable spot, and in the haze of it all they could barely hear Sebastian calling out Jim's name, but Jim saw Mycroft's wild fury, letting Jim in and reliving everything with him, but for once, the boy got to turn it all around. Jim grinned up at him with bloody teeth, his lip split, and rolled them again without ever stopping his relentless thrusts.

Mycroft was panting, trapped underneath Jim and suspended in a haze of lust and rage. Jim wasn't fighting back. He was just _taking_ the abuse, letting Mycroft rip into him, short of actually killing him. The boy tried to kick at him, snarling up at Jim, teeth and mouth smeared with the man's blood. He managed to get one hand aroung Jim's throat and squeezed to cut off his air. Their eyes met, and Jim could see all the way down, down to the caged thing that paced in the darkness where it had been locked away, half-mad and starved.

Jim stilled for the split second their eyes met, pain and breath forgotten, with his black holes of eyes looking through the tunnel of grey and locking with the thing inside. Jim dropped. He was on Mycroft's mouth in an instant, kissing him so hungrily it was more like he were trying to pull that thing all the way up to the surface. When the boy's other arm wrapped around his back, his hips snapped forward two, three more times and then Jim was coming hard.

Mycroft arched against the older man, feeling the cock inside him twitch in the throes of orgasm and seeking more friction for himself. His lips parted and his tongue delved into Jim's mouth. He wondered, briefly, how the man felt about tasting his own blood. He pulled back as soon as he felt Jim go still. Small fingers grabbed a fistful of dark hair and pulled.

"Suck me." The growled words sounded odd when spoken in a boy's high-pitched tones, but the monster was still present in Mycroft's gaze, waiting just beneath the surface.

Something dark rose inside Jim to meet it and match it and Jim’s teeth flashed to give Mycroft a wide grin. It was all red.

They were here now, together, finally.

Jim pulled out of the boy and sank down his small body, leaving a bright trail of blood as he dragged his chin. When his mouth wrapped around Mycroft's cock, the boy's hips jerked. Jim didn't even try to hold him down. His hands ran up and down Mycroft’s sides while he sucked.

This much, Mycroft could easily have, even with his body's current limitations. The boy tangled his fingers in Jim's hair and fucked Jim's mouth with a sigh of pleasure, remembering the bloody smile Jim had just given him. He turned his gaze down to watch himself disappear and come back. No longer lost in an overlap of memories, he was able to turn his full attention to Jim. Jim, who'd forced him open and relished what he'd found, who'd accepted the punishment Mycroft had dealt out in response. Who'd obeyed his demand. It didn't even really matter if the sensation of control was real or an illusion - Mycroft felt dizzy with it, and Jim's mouth was stripping away coherent thought.

The man groaned and sucked harder. He showed no signs of discomfort at Mycroft's hands in his hair; in fact, the only reaction he gave was to draw his own down and squeeze the boy's arse cheeks when Mycroft yanked. Jim had met the monster and liked what he saw, and even if the pace was quickening and Mycroft was devolving into nothing but the coursing waves of pleasure, Jim held onto it.

Mycroft had never made sounds like this before, when his memories had still been missing. It wasn't quite a sob - there was no sorrow to it, just pleasure and a dark sort of hunger. He'd found someone like himself, truly, and he was never going to let Jim go. The mistake he'd made in a flurry of panic would not be repeated again.

Jim's tongue swirled around him and that was enough to push him over the edge. Mycroft arched and climaxed, voice rough and raw as he cried out. It echoed through the empty spaces of the warehouse.

Jim sucked him until he rode through the very last of it. When Mycroft finally slumped back and his hands relaxed, Jim crawled back up to kiss him. He wrapped the boy's arms around him again and lifted the Mycroft into his own embrace in return. For a minute, they simply caught their breath.

The boy's arms tightened once his muscles responded again. Jim's back felt sticky beneath his palms - dried blood, Mycroft realized. He'd done more damage than he'd thought while lost in the moment. He just wanted to stay like that, wrapped around one another and basking in the afterglow of sex and the connection that had been forged, but Mycroft knew that they had to move. Everyone else who had been taken and transported in the raid would eventually escape from the locations they'd been left in, and people would come looking. For him, and for Jim and Sebastian.

The criminal turned half lidded eyes to him and smiled, stroking a finger down Mycroft's cheek. He'd realized the boy was intending to move, but Jim wanted to stay just as badly as he did. They rested for a minute more like that.

Sebastian fidgeted far off in the background, no doubt thankful that Jim was still alive after it looked like Mycroft would go for his neck, but getting restless still.

Finally, Jim sighed and sat up, leaning over Mycroft. "Time to go, love."

The boy's mouth twisted in disappointment, but he nodded. They were both exhausted, and they couldn't afford to fall asleep and risk getting caught. "There's a car outside we can use. We have some time before everyone else gets free and figures out what happened. They won't know where to start looking, but I'd like to be long gone before they begin."

Jim climbed to his feet, wincing at the pain in his bloody shoulder, but managing. Mycroft's teethmarks were up and down the top of it, at the base of his neck, and one prominent one just below his ear. Jim didn't afford them much attention though, instead helping Mycroft to his feet and finding their clothes. He found his pants and trousers and what was left of his shirt, shrugging it over his shoulders before he found the discarded knife and went to Sebastian.

The man glared down at Jim before he was cut free, but Jim only gave him a little smile. "Enjoy the show?"

Seb rubbed his wrists. "You're still bleeding." He didn't sound thrilled, but his tone was begrudgingly calmer.

Jim smirked and waved a hand in dismissal before he turned back to Mycroft, Seb now at his heels.

Mycroft eyed Seb cautiously as they drew closer. He'd mostly forgotten that the bodyguard had even been in the room, too fixated on Jim and his own memories to pay him much attention. Given what he'd just witnessed and the hell the man must have gone through in the last few days, dealing with a sleep-deprived and furious Jim intent on getting him back, Mycroft wasn't sure what to expect from him. "...I'm sorry I pointed a gun at your head," he murmured quietly as both men rejoined him - a peace offering of sorts, testing the waters.

The ex-soldier raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You're sorry about _that?_ " Jim turned and gave him an inquisitive look, after which he sobered a little. "We'll talk about it later, let's just get out of here." When they were as dressed as they were going to be, he, Jim, and Mycroft made for the door. Just before he reached for the handle, Seb added, "I didn't want to kill you either."

Jim smiled.

Mycroft gave him a flicker of a smile. Seb didn't seem particularly angry about anything other than Jim's injuries. Perhaps things would work out.

The bodies of the two hired men were right outside the door. Both were lying in pools of gore, heads shattered with a well-placed bullet. Mycroft pointed as they stepped over their sprawled limbs. "The cars are over there. I've got the keys to the left one. We need to go to one of your safe houses, as most of mine are known to a few people in Intelligence. They'll be checking all of them, looking for me."

"Where are we?" Seb asked. The warehouse loomed behind them. There was only one dirt road leading out into a grove of trees and not a highway in sight.

Jim looked around, then up to the sky. "Not far from the city…west I presume?" At Mycroft's small nod, Jim continued, "Take us up to the house in Hammersmith. We can take stock and move from there." Every time he glanced at Mycroft, there was a smile on the corner of his lips.

Seb grunted and they climbed in, Jim in the back with the boy, falling back into the routine they had set up while Mycroft stayed with them. They peeled out onto the gravel and drove until they reached a highway. Sure enough, they were back on their way to London.

The windows of the vehicle were tinted, so there was little danger of them being spotted, but Mycroft laid down across Jim's lap just the same. He was exhausted - physically, emotionally, mentally. He'd painstakingly sketched out all of the possibilities up to their confrontation in the warehouse, and speculated about what might happen afterward, but Jim had a layer of unpredictability to him that made detailed plans worthless. At least, where he was involved. The decision had been made, and now all Mycroft could do was see what this choice had in store for him.

It was odd, to say the least, driving away with two criminals to a hideout, rather than being accompanied by his usual retinue of guards to another secure, sterile government environment. Part of him was already analyzing the situation and calculating how to sneak away and contact the authorities, arrange for a strike and pickup. Habits were difficult things to break, especially when cultivated over a series of years.

Jim's hands in his hair, however, were a subtle ground to the man and what he planned to do with Mycroft. Jim's former plans for taking the boy against his will had surely been ditched, but that wasn't to say he didn't already have new ones forming.

Seb took them through countryside and a few small suburbs and across the river. No one said a word the entire drive, but no one needed to. They had to hole up until Jim could get them out of the watchful eye of Mycroft's peers, and his brother.

Jim's house in Hammersmith was not far from one of the London Underground stations, and Seb found a parking ramp nearby to leave the car. They avoided the cameras on their way back, and Jim took them up the steps of a small, faceless building. On the outside, it was unremarkable. Inside, however, it was kept closer to Jim's usual standards.

Mycroft glanced around once they entered and sighed. "I don't think I'll ever quite understand your tastes for minimalism." His own home wasn't cluttered, but Mycroft already knew he was going to miss his books and having things decorated to his own tastes. He'd programmed his home to lock down in his absence, but he had no idea when or if he'd ever be able to retrieve any of his belongings.

Jim waved his hand uncaringly. "I have so many homes I barely keep track of it. You are welcome to change whatever you'd like." He moved into the house and ran his hands through his hair. Seb went to the kitchen and, opening and closing drawers until he came back with two phones, one he tossed to Jim, who flashed him a smile. He turned it on, entered a few codes, fiddled with it some more, and then shut it down. "We can be on a plane out of here by midnight."

"A shower and sleep in the meantime." Mycroft still felt grimy from the warehouse, and paranoid about the dried blood on his skin. It was completely and utterly irrational - no one was going to catch him with such evidence on his person and start investigating him for criminal behavior - but such it was. "I'd imagine you haven't slept since I left, either."

Jim closed his eyes and nodded at Mycroft, and by the look of him alone, Mycroft could tell he hadn't.

"I need to take a look at you after," Sebastian interrupted them by stepping in. He was eyeing the lacerations over Jim's neck and shoulders. With the smeared and clotted blood, it was difficult to tell whether any were deep enough to become infected.

Jim patted Seb's shoulder and strode around the man, beckoning Mycroft to follow him while Seb frowned. "I'll let you patch me up, Seb, don't worry."

Mycroft gave Seb one backwards glance, then followed. The flat really was similar to the other places Jim had taken him before - giving an impression of space even if the flat itself was compact, laid out sensibly. The bathroom Jim led him into was a stark white, reminding him uncomfortably of the sterile environment of a hospital. The stall was far more luxurious than any medical center would have permitted, however.

Mycroft stripped down along with Jim, finally getting a good look at just how much damage he'd done.

The man bent and turned on the faucet. His movements were slowing, exaggerated due to the tiredness he was finally allowing himself to feel. The bite marks were not subtle. It looked like Jim had been attacked by an animal on one shoulder. It was a miracle Mycroft hadn't done more damage than he did. Jim must have barely saved himself by holding the boy off his neck. Still, the man stepped into the shower and sank back against the wall, drawing Mycroft inside by his wrists and ignoring the pain.

Mycroft wrapped himself around Jim. After everything that had happened, he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to bask in the simple comforts of touch and close proximity. His fingertips traced over the wounds. Regret was evident in the boy's expression, but also a conflicting measure of satisfaction and pride. He'd enjoyed hurting Jim, and enjoyed looking at the aftermath of his handiwork. He couldn't quite manage to hide it. "Does it still hurt?"

Jim leaned his head back against the tile wall. "Hmm, sore. I think." Jim must have been shutting it down on some level, allocating a part of his consciousness to block out the pain in his mind, like he had when Mycroft tortured him before. "It's fine. Seb will patch me back up." He smiled softly down at the boy.

Whatever Jim had seen in the warehouse, it was gone. Blocked and hidden away again. Mycroft gazed up at him, quiet and serious and at a loss. Parts of this were familiar from the time he'd spent with Jim before, but everything was different at the same time. "I wouldn't have thought you would ever let me do that do you. That's a bit beyond what I'd done to you before, and you'd been ready to kill me over even that much."

"Ah, but things have changed a bit since then," Jim hummed. Mycroft's nature was hidden away and he was playing on the other side…. And Jim simply hadn't taken notice because there was nothing to see. Mycroft was too good at hiding it, nearly becoming the mask he wore. The only thing that had prompted Jim to search him out again was his newly vulnerable state and striking appearance that came with it. Nearly by accident, he'd discovered so much more.

"They have," the boy agreed. He turned and held his hands up to the spray, watching the dark red disappear from underneath his fingernails. "I'm not going to be the same as who you've been dealing with. You will have realized this already, but it needs to be said." They would run into difficulties that hadn't been present when he'd had the mind of a child or a teen. "I am three years your senior. I will be working against the ingrained habits of two decades, minimum. You will have to have patience."

Jim sighed and closed his eyes. He didn't move. It was as though he was taking a moment to mourn the boy he'd lost. He'd known that would be the case if Mycroft regained his memories; that was why he'd been working so hard to prevent it, after all. Jim was silent for a long time before it appeared he'd come to a conclusion. "You've proven to me what lies at your core, how similar we are when everything is stripped away." His lips quirked. "You must in return have patience in me when I become _impatient_."

"That depends entirely on how you choose to express your impatience," Mycroft countered, but his mouth curved slightly at the thought. He remembered all too well some of Jim's more demanding moments. "I'll be more pleased to indulge you in some ways than in others."

Skin rinsed clean of the worst of the grime, Mycroft returned to press up against Jim's front. A worry that had been eating at him forced itself to the surface. "Is it off-putting, having me like this?"

Jim's head rolled down to meet Mycroft's gaze. He contemplated the question. "Somewhat." His eyes sharpened. "But I know you're in there." It would have been just as off-putting had Jim adopted his Richard personality and kept it, unable to seamlessly switch between the two. Finally, he moved, wrapping his arms around the boy in a genuine embrace and allowed the water to sluice down his head and shoulders. The blood trickled away.

Mycroft returned the embrace, sinking into the older man's touch with a sigh. It wasn't perfect, but he knew what Jim meant. It was enough for now. "Things will get better." Time would be required, but they had time to spare now. No more deadlines running them into the ground in a mad dash to cheat fate. "I am sorry for the grief I caused you when I left."

Jim turned the water off and swept Mycroft's hair back. Somehow, without changing his expression, his eyes were softer. He grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it around Mycroft, bending down to dry his hair and then his shoulders and then the rest of him. He took care in the way he did it, eyes following the towel wherever it went, drawing Mycroft's hands out and legs up, every part of him until Jim had finished. "You can make it up to me," he whispered against the boy's mouth when he kissed him and then quickly dried himself.

Mycroft watched Jim with a quiet awe. He reached out again despite himself, not quite able to resist the urge to touch. To reassure himself that this was real, not a dream or a bizarre delusion brought on by late nights and stress and endless streams of coding and data. Jim was warm and slightly damp beneath his palms, solid. His towel came away slightly red; the water had reopened some of the wounds.

Mycroft brought Jim's hand to his mouth and kissed it. "Let's get you taken care of. I'd like to, if you'll let me."

Jim's lips turned up in agreement and he set the towel aside while they redressed in pairs of night clothes Jim had kept in the closet. Mycroft's were by far too big, but with the waist tied on his trousers and sleeves rolled up, he made do.

Jim left his shirt open when they went back to the living room and found Seb at work over the phone. A pack of medical supplies was already laid out over the coffee table. He hung up when he caught sight of them and crossed the room to Jim, who waved him off. "Sit down," the criminal growled and dropped to the middle of the couch. "All of you can pamper me in a minute."

Jim's nonchalance brought an authentic smile to Mycroft's face. He gravitated to the coffee table and began picking through the supplies, snatching up what he'd need to disinfect and clean the wounds. "So confident than pampering is what you'll be getting. I suppose you feel you deserve it, hmm?" The boy sat beside Jim on the couch, still smirking in amusement.

Sebastian reluctantly sat at Jim's other side while the dark haired man chuckled. "I hope to never get what I 'deserve', Mycroft." He let the silk shirt slide from his shoulders as the boy's small hands moved it away. Mycroft's touch was incredibly delicate on his skin.

Sebastian watched as he began, presumably to make sure Mycroft knew what he was doing, but also because he was still on edge.

The boy licked his lips and got to work. Cleaning the wounds had to sting, even as careful as he was being, but Jim didn't show any signs of discomfort. Seb looked more uncomfortable, if anything. "And what, exactly, do you think you 'deserve', then? By whose standards?" Mycroft grabbed Jim's hand and settled it over a strip of gauze, silently instructing him to hold it in place. "It would be complicated to calculate exactly how many lives I've saved over the course of my lifetime, but society would say that even one purposeful death outweighs all those years of service. What is deserved is relative."

"Then 'deserve' isn't the question at all, is it? It's all but irrelevant. I want to be pampered, and you want to pamper me," Jim finished, smiling smugly and closing his eyes.

Seb's eyes glanced sideways to his employer, obviously noting how blasé the man was being about it all. "You've really changed your mind, then?" he asked Mycroft, ice blue eyes fixed expressionlessly on the boy.

Mycroft's sideways glance revealed nothing. He removed Jim's hand from the gauze and began applying healing ointment to the bite marks. "There's no conceivable reason for me to put myself back into this position if I had not." Fresh gauze was set in place, and the boy began to tape the edges. "Too many lines were crossed. I couldn't go back to the way things were, even if I had decided that that was the outcome I wanted."

The idea of Mycroft going deep enough undercover to ensnare them had crossed Seb's mind. Surely it had crossed Jim's as well. It was the only sure chance Mycroft would have to get close to Jim again. Logically, it was a sound conclusion, and Jim had cut others out of his life for far less, but after the time they had spent with Mycroft, something in Seb's gut told him otherwise, and it showed subtly in the way he watched the boy.

"You're thinking too loudly, Sebastian," Jim drawled.

With a sigh, the large man finally relaxed against the sofa, willing to let it go for Jim's sake.

"You're forgetting a few crucial details," Mycroft added. He guided Jim to turn slightly so he could begin treating the deep scratches down the man's back. "Unless I was willing to kill both of you, I have evidence tying me to a few kills. I don't believe I am able to stop at this point, which would mean that it would be exceedingly difficult for me to safely hide my activities under the increased surveillance I would doubtless find myself under. I would eventually be caught. I would also have willingly sacrificed and destroyed something truly rare, simply to return to a soulless existence of service, restraint, and solitude for however long it would be before I was discovered."

Treating the scratches went more quickly than the bite marks. Mycroft stroked his fingertips down the unmarked skin next to the angry red lines. "I am not a fool," he continued, voice more subdued than before. "I also find myself unwilling, perhaps incapable, of destroying Jim, in much the same way as I would not destroy my own brother. Not with death, and not with the madness that comes with severe imprisonment."

Jim was soaking up the attention and praise, but Seb was a little more sedate about it. The man nodded slowly. The things he had witnessed between Jim and the boy would suggest Mycroft was not understating himself. Even the experiences he shared with Sebastian had been worthwhile, and the ex-soldier had understood why he'd freaked out and ran in the beginning. His only hesitance now came from not understanding from where Mycroft's motives came, not as well as Jim did. He'd honestly liked the boy while he was in their care, as Jim seemed intent on encouraging. He responded after some consideration, "Glad to have you back."

"I'm not entirely, yet." Truthfully, he wouldn't be for some time. Jim had a better understanding of the situation than Sebastian did. "But it will suffice for now."

The boy gave him another wary glance. Mycroft knew where he stood with Jim, more or less. He wasn't as certain about the bodyguard. "I remember you now, you know. Excelsior." Sebastian had likely never seen him, but Mycroft had seen footage of him amongst the intelligence support feeds.

"Do you?" Sebastian's eyes narrowed in return. Mycroft had obviously matched up his codename with the real thing, now that he knew who Sebastian was. "And what do you think of my work now?" he asked with a raised brow.

Jim's dark eyes slid to his bodyguard, seemingly entertained by the little confrontation going on between the two.

Seb's question was a pointed one though. After all, he had been working for Jim in direct conflict with Mycroft at the time.

"You were the best operative we had on the ground, during your military career. It was quite likely they never told you as much. A few of your superiors also knew about your side activities, but were unwilling to sacrifice you until the campaign was done and you were no longer useful. You chose the wrong targets one night, it drew too much attention, and hands were forced. It would have happened eventually, but your last kills expedited the process." Mycroft finished bandaging Jim's back, but his attention was fixed on Sebastian now. "I envied your position, to a certain degree. Not the legwork, but the opportunities available to you. Sanctioned, even. I couldn't even watch some of the recorded video feeds for fear of generating suspicion."

Seb's lip twitched into a grin. "You flatter me," he laughed and it came rolling from deep in his chest, but his smile turned bittersweet in the end. He remembered exactly how fond Mycroft had been of their work in Cairo. There was a note of sympathy in his voice when he added, "Can't imagine living like that."

Jim relaxed against the sofa, his arms drew up over the back, behind the shoulders of both man and boy at his sides. The fingers of one brushed against Mycroft's ear and he smiled at the boy. "You won't have to any longer."

"No, I won't," Mycroft agreed. He looked down, expression vaguely haunted. "I'll need something, soon. I had to dispatch the guards quickly. That wasn't quite enough." Even knowing both men would understand, it took a concerted effort for Mycroft to utter those words. They felt dangerous, lingering the room after they'd faded away, ready to be wielded and cut him to pieces.

Jim perked up at that. A wicked smile pulled at his mouth and his fingers tangled in the boy's hair without pretense. "We needed to get off this dreary little rock anyway. I have a job in Russia that could be just the thing."

Whenever Jim was well and truly excited, he looked a little mad. Sebastian loved it when Jim got that look; good things usually followed, and the promise of finally getting out from the scrutiny of the British government, minus Mycroft, was appealing. He couldn't help his spirits lifting in return.

Mycroft gave Jim a ghost of a smile, amused at his enthusiasm and the ease with which he initiated contact. Jim was a paradox, unselfconscious even as he consciously controlled how others perceived him. The boy watched that manic grin for a moment before he leaned closer, pressing a kiss to an unbandaged portion of Jim's neck. "I've always enjoyed Russia. We need sleep before we leave, however. You especially."

A secondary thought occurred, causing one ginger eyebrow to arch. "Don't even think of wandering into temptation while we're there." Mycroft was well aware of what the underground markets of that country had on offer.

Jim smiled and chuckled while Seb rolled his eyes. "Not unless you deny me." As tired as he was, his body still took interest at the thought of having Mycroft in Moscow, on a job with the boy's spirits running high and unfettered. His hand slipped down Mycroft's side and curved over his hip, dipping between thigh and groin.

Seb got up. "Get some sleep," he grumbled at them while Jim only laughed.

Mycroft rose to his feet and grabbed Jim's hand to help him up. Welcome and flattering as Jim's interest was, neither of them were in a state for more activity. Not at the moment. "Come on. Show me where the bedroom is. We'll have time enough for that later."

Jim stumbled along after him with a sigh. "Wake us at midnight," he called to Seb while herding Mycroft down the hall and up a short set of stairs to a master bedroom. Seb grunted in response before Jim shut the door. He caught the boy's wrist before Mycroft could move any farther and bent to kiss him, walking him backward toward the bed as he did so.

Mycroft was still unused to being so easily handled. Being so much smaller. He could remember towering over the man who now herded him back towards the bed, so quickly that he nearly tripped over the too-long pyjama bottoms Jim had found for him. He caught Jim's face in his hands and pulled back from the kiss just as the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. "There's no rush. I'm not going anywhere."

"Hm, I'd like to make sure of that," Jim said, but there was no bite to it. He let himself drop forward, snaking an arm around Mycroft's back to catch him as Jim's weight overtook him. He landed on his side with the boy in his arms and finally, finally, he relaxed, kissing Mycroft softly. They sank into the sheets like they were made of air, billowing up around them and shrinking their world to that one small space.

Mycroft tangled their legs together and let Jim be as possessive as he wanted. Strange as the sensation was, it was oddly relaxing in its own way. He wasn't expected to be the protector, to be in complete control and take care of everything. He could let go, for once in his life. Jim's mouth was soft over his own and parted easily for him. Everything contracted down to that familiar taste and the warm body wrapped around him.

He was tugged up in Jim's arms, the blankets pulled from underneath them to wrap over their shoulders. They found soft pillows and once they were settled, Jim's arms were around him again and even Jim was sinking into the comforts surrounding them, giving into the well of exhaustion within him. His lips brushed Mycroft's while his eyelids drooped.

Mycroft's arms tightened around Jim in silent reassurance before he, too, began to drift towards unconsciousness. Jim didn't want to lose him again, but Mycroft had no intention of leaving. Not the man who was going to help him learn how to live again, and arrange the means for it. Not the man who'd let him rip into him, looked as far down as he could reach, without judgment, and still wanted him afterwards.

In his life, Mycroft had rarely indulged in his own desires. He'd given enough. He tucked himself against Jim and felt entitled to be a little selfish for once.

They fell asleep like that, wrapped up in one another.

In a few hours, Seb would wake them and they would be on a red-eye flight out of the country, leaving Mycroft's family and work behind.

Jim would take him wherever he wanted to go. Jim would allow him anything he asked, no matter how hateful it was. Mycroft didn't have to hide from this man. Soon, very soon, they would be free.


	21. Chapter 21

The flight to Moscow was long, but with the midnight sky over their heads and only dark clouds beneath them, separating them from the world they left behind, it was a liberation of sorts.

It was one of Jim's private jets, which meant they had the passenger space entirely to themselves and Jim kept Mycroft wrapped up in his arms the whole way, speaking softly while they watched out the windows and nodding off occasionally before they landed.

Russia wasn't as much of a world apart as Cairo had been, but whether that was due to the similar atmosphere or Mycroft's twenty years of gained experience remained up in the air. When they were rested, recuperated, and prepared, Jim gleefully took Mycroft on his promised job. The Russkaya Mafiya had contracted him in the acquisition and disposal of a Kiev based businessman thought to have been the only key holder of thousands of pounds of encrypted cyber currency. Jim thought it would be worth their while to extract the key from the man before he died, the Russian mob already believing it futile, and happily entrusted it to Mycroft's expertise.

Mycroft had listened to the briefing, solemn and attentive, but his interest was piqued the more details Jim gave him. Particularly when it became clear that the goal was an encryption key, and that he'd be permitted to do whatever he thought was necessary to obtain it... with the implication that he could dispose of the victim in any way he saw fit once the extraction was complete. A hunger settled just below the surface of his skin, barely perceptible. From Jim's smirk, the dark haired man had easily spotted it, even so.

The car ride to the job was silent, but Jim could feel tension coiling in the small body in his arms with each passing minute.

Sebastian rode separately with the small team of his men who'd picked up their target just outside Ukraine. It had been one of their many side projects, turned particularly useful for Mycroft's needs, but the men hadn't expected their boss to join them and were, understandably, a little intimidated. Sebastian was well known among them, but Moriarty was a ghost. The strange man and the unsettlingly cold boy were an enigma to them, and Jim intentionally kept it that way, preferring to let Seb seem the one in charge. They were merely the ex-colonel’s favored guests, and, when the handful of low level criminals were locked out of the old factory building and told to guard the place before cleanup, they had little more to say about the matter than one or two sideways glances at the unusual pair.

Mycroft ignored them. A quick scan had him dismissing all of the hired men as particularly ordinary. None of them were interesting, but neither were they a threat. Fear would keep them in line, leaving him free to focus entirely on the goal at hand.

The businessman they had picked up was moderately handsome - chiseled Slavic features accompanied by rather plain slicked brown hair, the effect slightly ruined by a livid bruise across one cheek. A slight sheen to his skin betrayed his nervousness. He already knew what this was about. What remained to be seen is what would happen next.

Mycroft shouldered the bag of tools that he'd been given and rose up on the balls of his feet to briefly kiss Jim. "Are you coming with me, or would you rather watch behind the glass?"

Jim smirked his devil's smile. "You go ahead. I'll watch." He took out his phone as Mycroft left; he would have a few loose ends to tie up.

Sebastian, however, followed without pretense, catching the door behind him and stepping in after Mycroft. When the boy turned to look at him, Seb gave him a quick, unnatural smile. "I'd like to see this," he said, one professional to another, or, perhaps, one suspicious bodyguard to an unknown element in his team.

"As you wish." Mycroft turned back towards the man strapped to the chair without so much as a shrug. Inwardly, he wasn't certain whether to be pleased or annoyed. Sebastian still had reservations about him, clearly, but this was a golden opportunity. Seb had shown off his skills in Cairo. Now Mycroft had most of his memories and expertise back, and it was his turn, without the restraints that had confined him when he'd worked for the British government.

"Alexei Rhyzkov," Mycroft began pleasantly. The man was confused, not certain what to make of the presence of a twelve year old. Keeping him off balance and stringing him along a fine line of terror would be key. Unpredictability and fear would help shake loose the secrets he was keeping. "I fear you've found yourself in most dire circumstances. You know why you are here, I presume?"

The man nodded. "You don't work for them, do you?" he asked with a heavy accent pulling at his vowels. This was the realization that spurred him to speak at all. "All they want is money. I gave them their money. I don't have any more. If I did, do they think I would not give it to them?" There was a pleading edge to the man's voice and he turned his attention to the dark mirror pane behind which Jim stood. "I know someone is watching, and whoever you are, you can tell them I have nothing left. The _mafiya_ has taken it all."

"Ssssssh," Mycroft whispered and stepped closer, stroking fingertips down the man's cheek. The gesture had its intended effect, shocking Alexei into silence. "You don't have to convince them. You have to convince me." The boy gave him a bright smile, watching for the flinch when the man noticed it didn't touch his eyes.

"You've got a key or two rattling around in your head, and puzzles are one of my favorite things." He leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. "You can tell me. Or I can try to convince you to tell me. Or I can peel things open to try to find where you've hidden them. I don't think that will be very pleasant for you, however."

"How can I convince you? Even if I give you one key, how would you know whether it wouldn't simply destroy the data on that card altogether?" The man seemed frightened, pleading, and bewildered all at once, imagining what could be done to him and yet presented with such an unexpected threat. He didn't know what to make of it, and was altogether thrown. The man thought he had been dealing with one group of people, but now that Mycroft's presence was added into the mix, he wasn’t so sure and there would be no way for him to know whether he had a chance of getting out of there alive or not. Strangely, the bit of hope Mycroft brought with him could work to their favor.

But still Seb stood by the door, large and imposing with his arms crossed over his chest, impassive as a stone statue.

Mycroft affected a thoughtful look, as if this hadn't occurred to him. "Goodness. That is a dilemma. Not quite good enough, though. You just admitted that there's at least one key, and something on that card worth protecting." Mycroft's smile was back, and slightly impish. "You, my friend, are not very good at lying. That's something you should have considered before getting yourself into this mess, hmm?"

Mycroft knelt beside his tool bag and began laying out sets of instruments, taking time to admire a few of the more choice pieces of equipment and ensuring Alexei got a good look. "How about this? We'll play a game. You try to lie to me. About other things, not the key. I'll show you just how good I am at slipping into your mind and discerning when you're not telling the truth." Mycroft stood and held his bare hands out. "If I catch you lying, I'll show you a bit of what I can do, without tools. If you aren't lying, or you manage to fool me enough that I'm not sure, you won't get punished."

The man's brows drew together in a look of anguish and confusion, confusion no doubt because he could not makes sense of this child in front of him. But, even in his distress, he understood Mycroft's words as well as could be expected. He glanced nervously to Seb against the wall, wondering if the boy was meant to talk and the man meant to dole out said 'punishment'.

"What are you going to do, read my mind?" Alexei asked, probably more nervous that Mycroft would assume he was simply lying _all_ the time.

"Something like that. I'm skilled at being able to discern people's thoughts. For instance, you're worrying right now that I will simply assume you're lying and commence torturing you for a particular period, then let up. That would defeat the purpose. There would be no point in playing the game and no reward for telling the truth that way," Mycroft pointed out. "It would just be a simple attempt to beat the information out of you. If you're looking for proof of my abilities, I suppose I can indulge you. Tell me a number of things. Lie on some of them, tell the truth for other pieces. I will respond with which were which, and for this test you will not be punished for lying."

He glanced to Seb again quickly, who rose his brows at the man in a mock smile, causing him to look away just as quickly.

Alexei took a breath and looked back at Mycroft, who was waiting patiently. Suddenly, the man found his mind blank under the stress. He took another steadying breath to calm down and shifted his hands to grip the back of the chair he was cuffed to. "Alright…. As you know, my name is Alexei Rhyzkov. I was a stock broker in Kiev, but I did some bookkeeping on the side. I grew up in the small city of Ivankiv, and…when I was going to school I spent five years in Hong Kong. There, I learned how to run a business, how to trade, how to meet people. I have three children, two boys, one girl, and…and a wife who never sees me."

Mycroft went still, grey eyes rapt on Alexei's face as he spoke. His head tilted, birdlike. "...you were a stockbroker, but not in Kiev, no. Your accent isn't right for that. Minsk, but you've spent some time travelling to Moscow and St. Petersberg, likely on business. The bookkeeping isn't surprising. It's landed you in trouble before, hasn't it? You aren't from the Ukraine at all, but from Russia. Not too far from Moscow. You did go to Hong Kong for five years, learning how to run a business above and below the table, and making the right contacts. You have..." His eyes narrowed. "No sons. Two daughters, and you are very concerned about the Mafiya getting their hands on them, so you've had them smuggled out of the country. Your wife never sees you because she left you."

Alexei stopped breathing. His back straightened, like he might have been trying to pull away from the boy but caught himself just in time. His tanned face went white. "You… you know me. You know me, from somewhere. Someone… someone must have told you," he had to take a breath; looking at Mycroft's intense, staring eyes took it away.

From the corner, a smile twitched at Seb's mouth.

Mycroft might have been a smaller version of Jim just then. The ex-colonel couldn't help seeing all their unnerving similarities while the boy was quietly undoing their captive.

"I wasn't told a thing. I can keep going, if you want." The boy's spoke in a skincrawling purr. He knew exactly how unnerving the tone would be, coming from his current body. "Or you can believe me when I tell you that you are obvious. I can see your thoughts wriggling around like minnows in a bucket. A very small, very _shallow_ bucket."

"Now tell me, dear Alexei. You hid extra money away, hoping to escape the Mafiya and have the funds to start again, to tap into them once you felt safe. Where did you hide the money?"

The man closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell with every breath. He didn't say anything, but he believed Mycroft now. It was obvious. He swallowed and tried to ready himself, tried to hold onto a sense of calm. "If I tell you, whatever you want to know, you will let me go. Yes?" He opened his eyes and begged Mycroft with his stare.

"If you tell me, you will be released," Mycroft agreed solemnly. It wasn't a lie, not exactly. "I want the location, the correct encryption key. Everything necessary to obtain the cache. Don't bother trying to hold back a key piece of information. I will be able to tell, and you will be punished. You don't want to find out what punishment is like."

Alexei's grip on the metal bars in his seat tightened. He hadn't meant to get caught up in something this bad, he'd never thought he would. He'd known he was taking a risk, but he'd relied so heavily on his employers not noticing the missing money taken here and there while he saved; he was too small, not worth the inconvenience. …but here he was. His eyes darted nervously between the boy and the man.

"Alright." Alexei's lips had become a thin, white line where he bit them. He was trying to gather the courage, trying to weigh the chances of him getting out of there alive and unharmed. "Alright. There is a second thumb drive. It's in my old apartment in St. Petersburg. There is a loose panel under the north wall, ground floor." He paused, fighting fear and uncertainty to get the last words out. "…the passwords to both are 'ya lyublyu tebya sofia'."

Mycroft stared at him for a long moment, looking _through_ him. His mouth curled into a smile, and he giggled. "Well, that was easy. Not much willpower to resist. And here the Mafiya had given it up as a lost cause." Mycroft moved closer. He couldn't quite stop his fingers from trembling, so close to a fix. Nothing was in his way anymore. Nobody would stop him, now or later.

"I'm going to enjoy you," he breathed, something like awe crossing his face before his hands descended on the man's shoulders and _pressed_ , just in the right spots.

Alexei's eyes went wide for a moment in further confusion before he screamed. So caught off guard was he by Mycroft's move that it took him agonizing seconds to try to thrash the boy off. He couldn't do it; the pain, pressed right into bundles of nerves that had never been touched before, was immobilizing. All he could do was yell and double over, trying to regain control of his body.

Still Seb didn't move from the wall, but he was interested now, watching the little figure, practically in his victim's lap, draw his first cries.

Mycroft let up and watched Alexei gasp for air. A demonic sort of light seemed to have lit him up from within. His smile widened into a half-grin when he saw the man's body twitch, his nerves still registering ghostly pain even after the pressure was gone. He kicked out with one foot and the man's chair toppled over. Alexei gave another cry of main as he landed.

The boy had snatched a knife from the bag and was on top of him in seconds.

Sebastian broke stance to walk slowly around the room's perimeter. He wanted to get a better view as Alexei began to scream and beg the boy to stop. The man's arms and legs thrashed against their chains. He was doing everything he could to get away from the knife, which wasn't much.

Mycroft was physically still a boy, but at that moment he wouldn't have been mistaken for one. His expression was too hungry. He wasn't even bothering to reassure the man, too impatient to play that game and break his mind with alternating hope and despair. His focus was on pain - small, non-lethal cuts, pressure points, anything that made Alexei squirm and scream and play the part of prey. At one point his hit the man in the throat with the bony space between thumb and forefinger, simply to hear his screams choked off into panicked gasps for air.

Mycroft sensed as much as saw Sebastian draw closer. His eyes flicked up from his victim to regard the blond.

Seb was watching him nearly as intensely as he was watching Alexei and a bit of that lingering suspicion that had cooled his features was gone. The man, like Jim, saw something in Mycroft he recognized. His arms hung loosely at his sides now, fingers twitching, itching to join in on the fray as he observed Mycroft's handiwork. Alexei was sweating, chest heaving, blood pooling where it leaked from open wounds, and still desperately trying to keep his face and neck out of the boy's reach. Mindless instinct. Seb lifted his gaze to meet Mycroft's, mirroring the boy's hunger.

Mycroft shifted, the movement reminiscent of a predator who'd just been joined at a kill by another, larger hunter. He could see that Sebastian wanted a piece of the man. His hand fisted in Alexei's stained, ragged shirt before his breath left him in a hiss.

He inclined his head slightly. Let it never be said he was not generous.

Seb cocked his head. He'd been going in on instinct and was caught by surprise at Mycroft's decision. He got over it quickly.

With a flash of a grin in thanks, he swiftly bent and unlocked the man's arms from the cuffs, then his legs. Alexei wasn't a small man, but Sebastian was bigger. By the time he'd tossed the chair aside and hoisted the man into his lap, back to chest, facing Mycroft and struggling futilely against him while Seb wrenched his arms behind him, he was grinning. He pressed his cheek to Alexei's and looked at Mycroft. "Let me give you a hand."

Mycroft's gaze flickered between them and he licked his lips. His pupils were blown wide and, coupled with his rapid breathing, he looked drugged. High. "Vy tak krasivy , kak eto," he whispered, and it was unclear whether he was speaking to shuddering, bloody Alexei or Sebastian behind him. He moved forward gracefully, slipping the knife between Alexei's ribs in a mock embrace. Mycroft didn't look at the wound - it wasn't the blood that interested him.

A cry broke from Alexei's throat and Sebastian's arms held tighter. The blond turned just enough to look at Alexei out of the corner of his eye. Sweat was running down the man's temples in beads, he was crying desperately from the fear as much as the pain and Seb only grinned at him.

"He knows what he's doing, doesn't he?" Seb whispered in his ear, which only made the man's tears flow harder. He was trembling terribly under Seb's hold, trying not to move, trying not to jar the knife. "And you can't figure it out, can you? What's going on in his mind…? I couldn't either. Not until now." Finally, an admission of trust.

"Mmm," Mycroft hummed in response. He walked the fingertips of one hand up along Alexei's ribcage, delighting in the way the man trembled under the touch. His hand slid up to cup Alexei's jaw. "Can you now? What do you think is going on in my mind, lyubimets?" The knife twisted.

"Not everything, no…" Seb still looked at Alexei's pained face while he spoke to Mycroft, "It's be stupid to say that much. But," his blue eyes darted to the boy, "I know that look about you. I've seen it before."

If Mycroft were acting, then he'd have to be willing to sacrifice this man's life. He might have been, but Sebastian didn't think he was.

Alexei thrashed, trying to loosen Seb's arms one last time. It was just enough to make himself cry out again at the pain break down into garbled pleas.

Annoyance creased Mycroft's brow. "You're getting boring." The man's fate was already sealed. Begging for mercy could sometimes be enthralling, but at the moment it just seemed... trite. Cries for forgiveness, rushed entreaties about his daughters, nothing particularly novel. "I survived my father's murder. I don't think you need be concerned about them."

And that, that small piece of a memory sparked something else entirely. Other memories, and the rage that accompanied them, tucked away and suppressed for far too long. Mycroft glared at Alexei, suddenly gripped by the urge to tear him to pieces. Violently angry about the way his life had gone, how he'd let himself get bullied and manipulated into a soulless existence of compliance and servitude.

Alexei's horror took reached new heights as he saw the change. Sebastian's eyes glinted in anticipation. He pulled the man's arms taut, stretching them out beside them and holding him open for Mycroft while the man struggled pitifully. His legs kicked out on the floor in front of him, sliding without his control. He was losing so much blood he was starting to go faint.

"C'mon, My….end it," Seb whispered.

A thought occurred, and Mycroft's mouth curled ever so slightly at the symbolism. The blade shifted in his hand, then plunged between the ribs right into Alexei's heart. It was an interesting experience, watching it from the other side. Mycroft watched the twitch of the man's death throes until his eyes went glassy and his body was finally still. Only then did he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Everything was still until Seb let the man's arms go. The body slumped sideways and Seb pushed him over. There was nothing between them now, and the blond man, face and chest smeared with blood, had a look in his eye that said he wasn't done with Mycroft. Not nearly.

Sebastian practically fell on the boy, hands catching first around his small waist and then pulling him in, like the man hadn't worked it out before he did it, but then they were pressed together. Seb's mouth captured Mycroft's and the man's arms wrapped around his back.

Mycroft's anger melted away into confusion as the atmosphere of the room suddenly shifted. Then a spike of lust hit him as Seb enfolded him and claimed his mouth. He could have fought back, so easily. The bloody knife was still in his hand, and Seb had left several vulnerable spots open to attack.

Mycroft felt dizzy. From the kill, from everything. It was entirely too tempting to just... give in. Not have to struggle and maintain strict control, but let himself be overpowered. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

" _Fuck_ ," Seb groaned. He shoved Alexei's legs aside and drew Mycroft up to sit astride his lap. He was hard, had been hard since joining in, and with two large hands on the cheeks of Mycroft's arse, he ground up against the boy. While Mycroft had been caught up in a whirlwind of sensation and unexpected memory, tainting the lust and hunger, Seb's blood had been burning the entire time. "Do you have any idea how hot that was?"

Mycroft had some idea now. Seb's expression and the friction against his groin had forced his brain to switch gears, moving from unpleasant, distant memories to more recent ones. "So you really _are_ happy to have me back," he commented. His voice came out more breathless than he would have preferred.

As turned on as he was, Mycroft still eyed the bodyguard in consideration. He wasn't quite certain where he stood with Seb. The blond was still attractive, still possessed certain magnetic qualities that had drawn his curiosity and interest in the first place, but he wasn't quite the same person as the boy Seb had known. It remained to be seen exactly what Seb wanted from him, and Mycroft... wasn't sure, for once, what he wanted. The tone that was set now would determine the rest of their relationship in the future.

The boy's eyes turned to the observation panel.

The glass, cold and impenetrable, reflected only their image back at them. Jim was behind it, watching them, but after several long seconds of Mycroft's gaze, he remained as silent as ever. There was only a five percent chance he would have left the room, probably a two percent chance that he would have done so without telling them both. No, Jim had to be watching. Another few seconds passed without signs of life from the other side and, just as Seb reached to turn the boy's attention back to him, the door clicked open.

Swinging slowly on creaking hinges, Jim's slim figure moved with it until it hit the wall and he rested one shoulder against it while his other hand held a camera trained on them. "Well, well…," Jim lilted, "Please don't stop on my account."

Jim didn't mind, then. A bit of the tension left Mycroft's frame. The boy's mouth curled slightly and he turned back to Seb, searching for answers in the man's scarred features. "Did you hear everything you needed, or do you need me to repeat the information?"

Sebastian didn't seem to be intimidated or put off by the way his mind clashed with his physical form. The gears in Mycroft's head turned. He could remember large portions of the Colonel's history now, reports and video recordings. None of it was discouraging, but Mycroft wasn't going to permit this if Sebastian considered him as anything but a second master. "Your tiger thinks he deserves a reward, I think."

Jim chuckled from the back of his throat, surely jarring the video, but he moved farther into the room. "I heard you. What do _you_ think he deserves, hmm?"

Jim came right up to them, crouching down beside them with his camera pointed perfectly in hand. He didn't have to look at it, but it turned with him like a second pair of eyes, capturing everything he wanted to save for later. Seb glared at him, but had too much pride to move. Jim only smiled wickedly back.

"Took you long enough to come around, Seb, love. He didn't believe in you quite like I did," Jim added as an aside to Mycroft. His smile reached his eyes when he turned back to Sebastian. "Did you know that Mycroft considered you _his_ before he left, just as much as you were mine? Such fondness he had for you…."

Mycroft bristled. It was too soon after the kill - he was still high from it, and he didn't have the ability to shut down and hide quite as thoroughly as he normally could. The boy's glare flickered between Jim and Seb, not quite sure where to direct his ire. "His suspicion was obvious. And he _is_ still mine." Or could easily be so again. Bodily limitations aside, Mycroft was certain he could manipulate things and bring Seb low if he needed to.

Jim's gleeful eyes, and the camera, turned from Mycroft to Seb, who glared back. "Get that out of my face," Seb growled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Nothing!" Jim looked suddenly affronted, eyes turning big and innocent. "Just letting you know what you _lost_ …."

Seb reached to take a swing at him, but Jim darted out of the way just in time with a shriek of giggles. He'd anticipated it and Seb was hindered by Mycroft in his lap. "I didn't _lose_ anything," the blond snarled, right in line with the boy's argument.

Mycroft wasn't exactly happy with Jim's desire to tape the proceedings. Despite the show he'd put on at the warehouse, he still had lingering self-consciousness about his body from long habit. His emotions had simply been strong enough to override his reluctance to act in front of an audience. Now Jim was obviously intent on not only watching, but filming. "Is that for your own pleasure, or a security?" he snapped.

Then there was the matter of Jim's implication that Sebastian wasn't his anymore. The man had doubted, but Mycroft had been confident that his skepticism had been temporary. The boy's grey eyes narrowed and he shifted on the bodyguard's lap.

Jim grinned, "My own pleasure, definitely," and he made no move to even look like he was lowering the camera.

"Ignore him," Seb told Mycroft, breath hitching. In spite of Jim's interruption, he was still hard and still seemed intent on keeping Mycroft right where he was. "He's trying to rile us."

"Are you implying I'm _wrong?_ " Jim called, staying out of Seb's reach.

"Yes, Jim, _you are fucking wrong_!" Seb snapped.

Mycroft snatched up a fistful of blond hair and pulled, bringing Sebastian's attention back to him. A challenge had been sparked. Mycroft knew he was playing right into Jim's hands, but the implication that he no longer had a hold on Sebastian, no longer had _control_ , bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He was already having to adjust to losing the network and power structures he'd built for himself in his old life.

Sebastian had better be his. Obedient. He had _better_. "Shirt off. Now."

Seb let out a breath of desire. He fixed on the boy, ignoring Jim who had gone suddenly silent anyway seeing that he'd set them into motion. When Mycroft raised a brow, Seb grabbed the hem of his own shirt. It was snug and fit him well, but when he pulled it over his head, the valleys of tanned skin and deep scars were revealed. His arms came free of the sleeves and he tossed it carelessly aside, where it landed next to the dead man. Ice blue eyes stared into Mycroft while the small boy, deceptively fragile in his arms, stared back with double the intensity.

"Can I touch you?" Seb's hands came up, but hovered at Mycroft's sides.

"Until I tell you otherwise." A hint of a smile played across the boy's lips; he was pleased that Seb's attention was back on him and that he'd obeyed, but the real test would come when he gave Seb an order he didn't want to obey.

"You missed me," he commented. "But why? Because you wanted a killing partner? Or out of loneliness? Am I just the next best thing for what you really want?"

Seb's hands were on him, moving under his small waistcoat and rucking up the shirt beneath. The man stilled at Mycroft's questions, taken aback. He hadn't been expecting that. Jim had probably never asked him a question like that. If he'd had other lovers, they might have, but he obviously did not still have other lovers, so it didn't take much to deduce how that had turned out. Even as clear as it was that he was infatuated with Jim, he tried to act as aloof as possible. When he wasn't in a rage at the man. Seb swallowed and set his teeth. "I like you, Mycroft. What does it matter why?"

"It matters to me, a great deal. How you view me determines a number of things, including your future actions." Mycroft raised one delicate ginger eyebrow. "I will not be a replacement, a substitute. Neither will I be an outlet for your frustrations. If your interest is primarily based in the fact that I am similar to Jim but accessible, or in that I am a more attractive option than going out and hunting or paying for relief elsewhere, then I am no longer interested. Much a pity as that would be," he added. Sebastian was not unattractive, if in a way that was as completely different from Jim as he could be.

"No, you're certainly not Jim," Seb huffed, glancing at the man who'd retreated with his camera out of their spotlight. "In spite of your similarities," he added. His palm brushed Mycroft's cheek and the boy could tell that Seb was giving his request some consideration. "You hunt like I do…" he began, bringing a spark of lust back into his eyes, "…you know what that means, what that's like. That's not something I find going out looking to get laid. And," he gave a little laugh, "you looked up to me, when you were, y'know, more like a kid. I liked that." It wasn't something he would have normally admitted, but still he gave Mycroft a crooked smile. 

Mycroft tilted his head and regarded him thoughtfully. Sebastian wasn't lying, not as far as he could tell. "I won't be more like a kid, now." He _could_ be, really, if he put his mind to it and expended the effort to play the part convincingly, but Mycroft found the idea of doing that on a regular basis... distasteful. "But you are right. I know what that means and what it's like." He returned a bit of Seb's smile. "That last hasn't entirely gone away. I'm older than you, I know more about you now, but I admit to a certain amount of jealousy that you were able to indulge and express yourself freely. That you acquired the skills you wanted, rather than avoiding them in order to avoid suspicion or temptation."

Seb's smile spread luxuriously across his face, the moment between them disrupted only by Jim's excited giggle. The blond broke off to glare at him, quickly hushing the man before he turned back to Mycroft. The spark hadn't left his eyes, and now there was a hint of one in the boy's looking up at him. "I wouldn't mind helping you indulge," Seb said softly. His hands moved back to Mycroft's slight waist, fingering the hem of his shirt. "Make up for some of that lost time."

Mycroft's interest visibly sharpened. The muscles underneath Seb's hand quivered as he sucked in a breath. "Training and practice opportunities would be... _appreciated_." His gaze flickered downward, then back up to the blond's face in amusement. "I did say you could touch me until I instructed you otherwise. You don't need to hesitate." Sebastian had a number of layers to get through before he'd reach skin; Mycroft wore clothing like it was armor. For him, perhaps it was, if only in his mind.

Finally, Seb's smile broke into a grin. It was interesting how he could be so respectful of his employer and Mycroft - even going so far as to anticipate the boy's wish not to be touched if Seb gave him an answer he didn't like - and yet lived the life he did. This man, holding himself back for Mycroft, was a world apart from the one on the recordings Mycroft had seen. 

"Don't mind if I do." Seb's hands fastened at the bottom of the boy's shirt and pulled its buttons apart, one by one. He slipped the jacket over Mycroft's shoulders, still marveling at how small they were until it hit the floor and he continued progress on the buttons. The shirt followed, as pristine as the jacket, but tossed aside carelessly by Seb's hand. When Mycroft's shoulders tensed at the cool air and the exposure, Seb pulled him against the man's chest. In comparison, he was impossibly small. 

Mycroft might have denied the notion if he was asked, but in truth he found the difference in size between the two of them erotic. Dangerous, even. He'd always had a love/hate relationship with elements that provoked fear and anxiety. Sebastian could easily break him in a number of ways, or just overpower him and do whatever he wanted. Part of Mycroft balked at the idea of not being safe, not being in complete control. Part of him wondered what it would be like to just relax completely, all of the decisions out of his hands.

His curiosity for the latter was getting stronger. Sebastian pulled him closer and Mycroft shivered, not entirely from the chill of the air around them. The boy could feel the warmth and pressure of Seb's hands on his skin. Doubtless Seb had already felt the results of his interest being piqued, pressed against his stomach after he'd drawn Mycroft closer.

One large hand drew down his exposed back, trailing solidly over the ridges in his spine until it reached the top of his trousers, and dipped inside. Seb lifted the boy to slip the hand further down, caught between the tight fabric and the soft roundness of Mycroft's arse. It brought delicious friction against both of them, so Seb dipped his other hand in as well and did it again. Distantly, he was aware of Jim circling just out of sight with his camera and a grin. 

Mycroft's fingers dug into Seb's skin. He turned his head and watched Jim with half-lidded eyes, trying to decide precisely what he wanted. Whether he'd even allow himself to try. Thinking was difficult when one's partner had wandering hands and was engaging in clothed frottage _just enough_ to derail one's concentration.

Eventually he reached a decision. "Sebastian, there are a few lengths of rope in the equipment bag. I want you to fetch them."

Seb raised a brow, undoubtedly wondering whether Mycroft intended to tie him up. Jim would have, if he'd been anticipating Mycroft's desires to be in line with his employer's. Still, Sebastian sat forward, reluctantly letting Mycroft off his lap and placing a kiss against the corner of his red lips before doing as he was asked. 

Jim crouched in anticipation, camera zooming in on the man's legs as he bent to rifle through the bag, drawing out the nylon rope. It coiled around Seb's hands as he walked back to Mycroft.

Mycroft stared at the pale cord draped around the man's hands for a long moment. It was more difficult to make himself speak the words than he'd anticipated it would be. The boy's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Logically, he knew he was safe - Jim was in the room with them and he wouldn't permit Sebastian to truly damage him. Survival instincts, however, were difficult to override.

The boy swallowed and held his hands out, wrists together. The action would speak for itself.

Seb's eyes widened. As did Jim's. The latter was instantly grinning, excitedly leaning back to frame the scene.

Seb inclined his head and narrowed his eyes, questioning Mycroft without words. When his position didn't change, the man moved forward. Unconsciously uncoiling the rope and readying it in the loops he would need, all of Sebastian's focus narrowed in on Mycroft. Jim faded away with the rest of their surroundings. When he moved, Seb paid no attention. He took hold of the boy's outstretched wrists and, with one last look between them, began coiling the rope around them. In one swift motion, he finished the knot and lifted Mycroft to his feet, propelling him backward at the same time. The screech metal sounded and right before Mycroft hit the wall, he was lifted again to stand on the chair Seb had caught and righted with his foot. Mycroft's hands were dragged over his head to catch at a hook in the wall, one meant for the height of an adult. When he was secure, he and Sebastian were face to face. 

Mycroft was afraid. There wasn't any way that Seb could miss the sharp edge of worry in his grey eyes, but he also hadn't told the blond man to stop. He stared defiantly at the bodyguard, as if daring him to criticize his choice. Mycroft's hands gripped the loose end of the rope and tugged. The knots held, as did the hook.

Seb seemed to know what he was doing. Mycroft wondered if that was from experience with a previous partner, or whether every person who'd been in his position had been a target. Or a victim.

Seb's hands came up to cup Mycroft's cheeks, large enough to wrap gently around the back of his skull, but Seb stroked them through his hair. He moved in close and pressed his lips to Mycroft's jaw to reassure the boy. Excitement was written in the tension of his frame, but he gave Mycroft time, attentively slipping his hands down the soft skin under the boy's arms and back up. Seb wasn't going to hurt him - he hadn't asked for that - and the man let him know with every soft caress. 

When he kissed Mycroft, it was deep and languid, but his hands got ahead of him, trailing down Mycroft's soft belly to loosen the fastening of his trousers.

Mycroft couldn't quite stifle a moan. He already felt a bit overwhelmed. Seb's tongue was a bit too large for his mouth, even when he was slow and careful, and this had confirmed, if nothing else, that he had a fascination with Seb's hands. Mycroft felt even smaller and more breakable than he currently was from the size difference alone.

Seb finally tugged the boy's trousers off, and memories came flooding back. Mycroft remembered how this had begun - their chat in Egypt, their first experiment in the storeroom next to the morgue. The first time he'd let Sebastian take him, with Jim watching and waiting until they were done before claiming him for himself. Seb's palm settled over his smaller cock, hard beneath his pants, and Mycroft couldn't help but buck against him.

A deep chuckle sounded above him, followed quickly by a moan when Seb pressed his body to Mycroft's and felt the little hardness of the boy's cock slip through his fingers. Seb took the palm of his hand and ran it up and down the boy's erection, watching Mycroft's eyes flutter shut and his mouth fall open in pleasure. The man took his bottom lip between his teeth and nipped lightly, delighting in the sharp hitch of Mycroft's breath. His fingers slipped under the elastic band and slid Mycroft's pants down, slowly exposing him to the world. Seb's lip curled and his fingers came back, pressing and stroking around Mycroft's small cock. His other hand slipped down the boy's backside, cupping and kneading soft flesh.

Mycroft writhed under Seb's touches, but he couldn't get away. That was the point - putting himself at Seb's mercy in a controlled, low-risk way. Still, given that he'd never even attempted anything like this before, even something this mild was lent an edge from sheer novelty. Mycroft kissed back, leaning forward until the hooked rope stopped him, trying to get just a bit more friction, to touch more skin.

Sebastian's hands fell to his hips and he pressed the boy against the wall. He was tall enough to rut against Mycroft like that, even taking the boy's feet off the chair an inch so that he had to wrap his legs around Seb's hips. Strong hands held him there, and the man's belt dug in harshly against Mycroft's stomach before Seb went for his own trousers, loosening them and pulling himself out. His cock was massive next to Mycroft's, but he rubbed them together anyway, the friction and gritty sweat between them becoming an burning need. 

"You didn't happen to pack any lube in that bag of tricks, did you?" Seb whispered in his ear. 

Mycroft's lips were parted in a gasp. He gazed back at Sebastian with glassy eyes and his legs tightened around the man's waist. He cast back into his memories to try to remember everything he'd packed - lust slowed down his thought process. "...y-yes. There should be a small container." He'd packed it thinking of Jim, not knowing when it might be needed. He hadn't really considered Sebastian as an immediate possibility after the mission was complete. Seb moved away towards the bag, and Mycroft shivered at the cold air that shifted to where warm skin had been just moments ago.

Suddenly Jim was there, all dark smiles and mischievous eyes. He still held the camera but paid it little attention, but as though it operated autonomously in his hand. He stood in front of the boy and stroked his fingers over Mycroft's temple. "You are so beautiful like this," Jim whispered and pecked a kiss to the boy's mouth before Sebastian came back. 

Mycroft nipped at Jim's lower lip just before he pulled back. "Do I get to record you, when I finally get to have you?" he countered. He wasn't regretful, exactly, of how things had gone down in the warehouse, but he did lament the loss of opportunity. The boy wasn't certain Jim would permit him another chance.

Jim chuckled. "Absolutely. But only if you're in it with me." 

He stepped back, grinning as Seb approached and trained the camera on both of them until once more he faded into the background once more. Seb's hands back on Mycroft's body didn't help him keep track of the camera, nor did the man's mouth on his own or the slicked fingers running over his cock again, and then lower, over his balls, between his thighs…teasing back and forth over the ring of muscle between his cheeks. Jim lingered close by, but Seb had taken over completely. 

The stimulation was enough that Mycroft's world contracted down to just himself, Sebastian, and the ropes binding his wrists. The blond man had lifted him slightly in order to trace slow, maddening circles around his entrance. Mycroft grunted into his mouth and squirmed, not to get away, but for the relief of some amount of stimulation. Seb refused to relent, keeping his teasing slow and steady. Trying to drive the boy mad, if the smile on his face was anything to go by. "...are you hoping to make me beg?"

"Why, is it working?" Seb pressed slow kisses at the boy's collar bone. His finger pressed against the puckered flesh, but didn't slip in. "I didn't think I'd get you like this again. Gonna enjoy it however…long…I…want." He kept stroking and teasing brushes of his own cock against Mycroft's where they rocked together, just enough to be a building, maddening tease. 

Mycroft had never been one to be straightforward. He'd always hid behind facades and silvertongued turns of phrase, subtly pulling strings and directing people to exactly where he wanted them, often without them being any the wiser that they'd been manipulated. Mycroft arched against Seb's mouth on his skin and hissed. "Not too long, I hope, or I might change my mind. Jim will do what I want if you won't."

Seb ground the boy into the wall with a low grunt of warning. "You think I'd let you go now?" he asked, but they both knew that if Jim got involved, Seb would bend to the man's wishes. Which seemed to annoy the blond man. He growled in Mycroft's ear and pushed the digit in, stroking firmly inside him in punishment as much as reward. 

Mycroft cried out and his toes curled. The pressure was just this side of painful, sudden as it was. "You would if you ever want me to indulge you again, much less on a regular basis," Mycroft snapped. "Do not make the mistake of thinking you can abuse my trust and avoid being punished." Just the thought made him angry enough to jerk on the rope.

It would have been funny had it not been true. Mycroft wasn't even half Seb's size, hanging suspended against the wall, naked and impaled on the man's finger, but if he wanted to, he could likely find a way to do whatever he wanted to Sebastian. And if he couldn't, now that he'd given up his own network of resources, he still had Jim's favor. 

Seb growled again in frustration, but the stroke turned gentle, pushing in and out and searching to give the boy as much pleasure as possible, if only to distract him from that train of thought. Seb nuzzled his earlobe. "Better?"

Mycroft's smile turned sly; he had easily followed Seb's train of thought. "Suddenly so eager to please. You _have_ been trained well, although I'm sure we could take it further." Testing the limits of Sebastian's obedience had a certain amount of appeal. The boy nuzzled him back and whispered into his ear. "You'll have to get used to having two masters, but I think you'll find me kinder than Jim."

Seb shifted against him. It wasn't obvious why until Mycroft saw goosebumps running down the man's arms. Apparently, he wasn't too opposed to the idea. A little more lube was squeezed into Seb's palm and he slid another finger into the boy's body, stretching and easing his muscles slowly. His cock was straining between Mycroft's thighs, and Seb ground against him in little thrusts as he worked his fingers in more. When a third was added, he pulled Mycroft flush against him just to feel the boy tremble. "How kind?"

Mycroft started laughing. No mockery tinged the breathless sound - he was more pleased at Seb's reaction than anything. "Enough to indulge you a bit, every now and then, so long as you're obedient. And a good teacher. I haven't forgotten the offer you made." He hadn't seen all the angles that made up the relationship between Jim and Seb, but he'd observed enough to guess at the majority of it. Seb's loyalty would never waiver, but he'd also never get everything he wanted, and Jim delighted in tormenting him when the opportunity arose.

Seb pulled his fingers free and kissed the boy. "Good," he breathed. He'd enjoy that, working with Mycroft. He could tell already, and the perks were looking pretty good, too. With the boy's blood running hot and with Seb as his tutor, they might wind up like this quite often. The ex-colonel was also keen on seeing more of that mind trick Mycroft had pulled. He could learn a few things from Mycroft in turn. Smiling wickedly at the ideas, he lifted Mycroft's legs to wrap around him again and hoisted the boy against the wall, letting his cock finally, _finally_ slide underneath him. With another squirt of lube, he pressed against the boy's opening. 

Mycroft bit his lower lip in anticipation, groaning when Seb slowly, ever so slowly, slipped inside. He'd known what to expect from the previous time, known that Seb was large enough that it was going to hurt even with preparation until he loosened up a bit more. The boy's head fell back against the wall with a thump as he was stretched and filled. " _Fuck_." He glanced down, and somehow that made it both better _and_ worse. Mycroft found he couldn't tear his gaze away from the sight of Seb pushing into him.

Seb was so big inside Mycroft that he had to stop, slowly pull back, and ease inside again, thrusting in slow, shallow motions until he went deeper. 

The stretch around him had Seb squeezing his eyes shut in overwhelming pleasure. Finally, he was buried as far as he would go and Mycroft was wrapped in his arms, back damp with sweat and looking down at them joined together with heavy, heated eyes, fascinated by the way his skin wrapped around Sebastian's.

Mycroft was shaking slightly. Even with Sebastian taking his time and being careful, the initial adjustment wasn't a pleasant one. The boy had remembered that, but also remembered just how intense the pleasure had been once he loosened up. He finally glanced up at met Seb's eyes. Mycroft felt like the man was going to split him in two. Seb looked positively predatory, and it sent a pleasant shiver up his spine. "...go slow."

Seb gripped Mycroft's hips and held him in place as he pulled back and pushed in slowly. He was breathing heavily from the tight heat around him and the sight of the boy. Mycroft looked like he was bracing for more pain, but shifting against Seb like he was seeking pleasure. Sebastian knew he was waiting for his muscles to relax and his body to open up, and for a moment, the man entertained thoughts of what the boy might look like if he never let him get that far, pushing him to the floor before he ever got the chance and driving inside him relentlessly. He exhaled sharply, letting the vision fade for one more favorable for his chances of getting Mycroft like this again, and again. Pressing one hand between them, he took the boy's small cock in his hand and stroked slowly, placing gentle kisses up his neck while the fantasy slipped away. 

Mycroft hadn't missed the flicker that had passed across Seb's face when his thoughts had wandered. The blond wasn't nearly as adept at hiding his thoughts as Jim was. Adrenaline from a spike of fear sharpened his senses, making him that much more sensitive when Seb began stroking him. "...I saw that," he whispered. 

Sebastian's desire to cause pain was understandable. Mycroft could understand the appeal. What he couldn't condone was the damage that would likely result. Nor did he particularly wish to endure such a thing for the sake of Seb's pleasure.

Seb closed his eyes and pressed his face to Mycroft's neck in deference. "I won't hurt you," he said, and meant it. As appealing as the thought was, contrarily he had grown fond enough of the boy that he didn't want to hurt Mycroft in any lasting way. As Jim had been hoping for, all this time, he wanted to protect the boy, even from himself. His face grew almost pained as he pushed in again. "Please…believe me." He swallowed but didn't stop his strokes. 

"I do. Or at least, you won't _really_ hurt me. Not unless I allow you to." Mycroft wondered if such a thing was worth experimenting with. Even if it wasn't, the _possibility_ might be enough to hold over Seb's head, giving him a fantasy to chase after. "I'd be lying... if I said it didn't make things... interesting." Which was an understatement; knowing that Seb was more than capable, but restraining himself, gave the experience an edge.

The man groaned and thrust deeper, responding instantly to Mycroft's words. Considering his tastes, it wouldn't be difficult at all to use against the man, even if he would be venturing into the kind of manipulation Jim often employed with him. Even if Sebastian caught on over time, it held potential. Seb's arms tightened around him and his hand began stroking Mycroft enthusiastically. He was getting a very good reaction, at least. 

Mycroft grinned briefly. He was enjoying the way his words had motivated the blond. Seb's mouth drifted to his collarbone again, and the stimulation from his hand was doing wonders for getting him loosened up. Even if the pleasure made him tense, his body was getting used to the stretch. 

Temptation proved too great; Sebastian's mind was pliable and suggestible, reminding the boy of the games he'd used to play with unwitting strangers. "Like that idea, do you? Me screaming underneath you? Jim would be cross if you left marks. But," he hissed into Seb's ear. "I could teach you how to hurt. Without leaving evidence behind."

Sebastian blinked hard, unable to stop himself from thrusting in more forcefully at the visions Mycroft's idea brought to mind. He had the boy pressed firmly between the wall and himself now, nearly smothering him until he realized what he was doing. He shivered with the sensation as he pulled out, only to thrust back again smoothly. He wracked his mind, wondering whether Mycroft really suggesting that he would allow the man to do that to him. Seb wasn't sure he'd heard the boy correctly. "Wh-what?" 

Mycroft laughed again, sounding half-mad. "You heard me. If you're very, _very_ good," he whispered. "I'll teach you some of what I know... and let you try it." The boy grinned again at the expression writ across Seb's face and the way he couldn't seem to quite control his body when his fantasies took hold of his mind. "I think that's sufficient motivation for you, hmm?"

" _Fuck_ ," Seb breathed in a long exhale. His eyes had fixed on Mycroft with an intensity that nearly matched Jim's. His hips snapped up and he gasped breathlessly against Mycroft's heated skin. "Do you know what you do to me?" 

He lifted the boy, taking his tired arms off the hook and letting them fall, bound, over Sebastian's neck while he laid them down on the floor. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but Seb was beyond desperate and it would have to do. With Mycroft spread out under him, not having to hold him up, Seb could touch everywhere and use the leverage of gravity to ease his quickening thrusts. 

Mycroft's bound hands clawed into Seb's hair. He knew exactly what he was doing to the man. It was _purposeful_ , much as Jim's training must have been when he'd first snatched up the fallen colonel. The boy wrapped his legs around Seb's waist and changed the angle, and suddenly he was seeing stars. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath, smelling the tang of copper that still lingered in the air. 

Seb grinned when he saw the difference and thrust forward again, watching the boy's mouth fall open before he kissed those inviting lips. His teeth nipped sharply at Mycroft… sharper than they had been before, a painful sign that the man believed him, but Seb didn't take it further than that and his slightly too rough thrusts. Mycroft had gotten him excited, both mentally and physically, and it was coming out in the man's attentions on him. 

That had been the idea all along. Whether or not he'd ever actually let Sebastian do what he'd suggested was irrelevant; Mycroft had wanted to sow the seeds of obsession. He wanted Seb just as taken with him, just as obedient, as he was with Jim. "Touch me." He turned his head to offer Seb an expanse of neck. When he opened his eyes he spotted Jim across the room. Camera in hand, Jim's gaze burned into him, even at a distance, even tucked into the shadows as he was.

Sebastian gave a moan that came from the very core of him and latched his mouth to the boy's neck. He trailed his teeth down the pliant skin, scraping and biting just light enough not to do any damage. It would still leave bruises, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. Growing more enthusiastic by the second, he lifted Mycroft's hips to meet him, angling deep and up to massage the boy's prostate with every passing stroke. 

Across from them, Jim's lips curled into a smile. He could have been a statue, as still as he was but for that single movement. It would have been unsettling if the boy had not known him as well as he did, and had Sebastian inside him like he was. Jim saw Mycroft's intent. It passed between them like a shared secret.

Mycroft was getting past coherent thought. Everything was sight and sound and touch, pressure and sliding pleasure and the slap of skin against skin. Sebastian was moving far more quickly now. Mycroft wasn't certain Sebastian would stop if he asked him to at this point - the man probably wouldn't even hear him, even if the boy truly _had_ wanted him to stop. 

With his hands tied and looped around the blond's neck, he couldn't reach down to pull at himself. He made a noise of frustration and arched, trying to get some amount of friction.

When Seb moved to go for the other side of his neck, the man shifted enough for Mycroft to brush up against him. That brought him out of his mindless rut enough to convey the boy's desires, and one of Seb's hands left Mycroft's hip to trail down smooth skin, untouched by anyone but Jim and himself, and find the stiff little cock trapped between them. Seb hovered over the boy, but he couldn't decide where he wanted to touch, where he wanted to kiss and bite and stroke - he wanted to do it everywhere, and he was falling apart, coming undone inside such a small, but so very welcoming body. All the while Mycroft's intense grey eyes, even half lidded and delirious with lust, kept him just barely in check. 

There was no mistaking the fact that he was willing. Seb might have been big enough to overpower him, but they were moving together. The boy had hooked his legs around Seb's waist and his mouth was curved into a genuine smile, rather than the flat affectation he displayed when the core of himself was shut away. Mycroft made Seb's decision for him, tugging at the back of the blond's head until he was close enough to kiss. He ran his tongue along Seb's lower lip until the man opened for him and let him in.

Around them Jim moved, his lens picking up everything. For once, Seb paid him no mind, instead falling into Mycroft's touch like he was the man's last hope for release. When the boy's hands tightened in his hair, every muscle in his body tightened in return. He still didn't want to hurt Mycroft - even though he did, and it was all blending together and he couldn't think straight anymore. A guttural whine came from the man's throat, caught between their mouths. 

Mycroft had him snared. The boy could sense it, as if Seb were prey and he'd just heard the tell-tale snap of a trap being triggered. His small fingers turned into talons and pulled the man into a possessive grip. Sebastian's whine was greedily swallowed. The kiss broke off as they both caught their breath, just long enough for Mycroft to pant into man's ear. "... _come_."

The cry came again as the man thrust two, three more times and then he was pulsing, coming inside Mycroft. His body shook with the strength of it and his head buried in the boy's neck. His arms came up around Mycroft's back, pulling the boy as close as he could in this one moment of bliss. 

Jim was crouched next to them, just far enough not to be noticed, lens zoomed in on them. He wasn't missing a thing. 

Mycroft let Seb hold him. His mind was busily recording everything - the warm, slightly sticky weight above him, the heave of Seb's chest as he caught his breath, the twitches inside him that subsided and the way Seb's cock slowly grew soft. Mycroft was all too aware that he was still painfully hard, trapped between them and unsatisfied. 

He'd had a victory of sorts, however. He'd sunk hooks into Seb that would be difficult to remove. His words and the memories would haunt the blond's thoughts and bring him back for more.

Gasping softly, catching his breath, Sebastian's arms loosened and he pulled back. When he looked down at Mycroft, he stared for the longest time. Seb hadn't expected to be as caught up as he was. He hadn't expected such lust, heightened as it was by the kill already, taken to a new level by the boy's eagerness and the offer of more. Finally, he moved, sliding back and drawing down Mycroft's body until the boy's bound hands dropped from his neck and Seb's tongue wrapped around his cock. 

Mycroft jerked as he was suddenly enveloped in a delicious, wet heat. Large hands framed his hips and held him in place. Mycroft stared down at Seb, who had swallowed him whole without any trouble. Seb, with his too-wide sharklike grin and his taste for causing pain, who could easily hurt him but was enthusiastically sucking him off instead. His thoughts merged with the sensation and left Mycroft trembling. He keened and quickly came unraveled.

Strong fingers sank into his pert flesh, groping as Seb pressed his chin firmly to the boy's lower stomach, sucking to a quickened pace. The man was probably not used to being on the giving end of this equation, but that did not deter him. For Mycroft, he was willing. Everything about the boy was so deceptively soft - his flesh, his smallness, the fingers in his hair, pulling without the strength of a grown man, even though just feet away from them laid the bloody evidence that he was anything but a child. 

Mycroft's body spasmed under Seb's hands as he climaxed with a cry. There was nothing for Seb to swallow - the boy still wasn't quite old enough for that, at least in physical terms. He finally relaxed against the floor, twitching when Seb released him. A glance downward made his breath catch - Seb's mouth was red and slightly damp, and the man was an enthralling mixture of danger and obedience.

His blue eyes glinted in the light above them as he looked back at Mycroft with a grin forming at his mouth. He'd liked that - liked the boy coming undone by him. 

Jim's camera zoomed in on them as they hung in that moment. They would be captured forever, if only for the viewing pleasure of one Jim Moriarty's home video collection, but the moment was cemented all the same. 

"Come here." Mycroft tugged at Seb's hair until the man crawled back up. The boy promptly tucked himself against the crook of Seb's neck as soon as the blond was draped over him again. Conflicting emotions were washing through him, relief being the most persistent of all. He'd made the right decision. Things would work out. He actually _could_ have everything he wanted in life, and he'd been given the gift of time. Time enough to start over.

He swallowed and hid against Seb's body, ashamed at being so visibly maudlin.

Sebastian's arms curled around him and the man glanced down at him in worry, but before it could solidify into anything, Jim pocketed his camera and joined them, sitting beside Sebastian and scooting in to brush his fingers lightly against Mycroft's hair. A soft smile still played at the man's lips, and since Seb didn't know what was running through Mycroft's head, he took it as a good sign. That, and the boy's soft nuzzle against his neck. 

"One happy, little family," Jim purred in his musical tone. 

"I don't want to wake up." Mycroft's voice was barely audible, muffled as it was against Seb's skin. He was happier than he could recall having been in _years_ , perhaps ever, and it was terrifying. Part of him worried that it _was_ all a dream - a delusion brought on by a lack of sleep. He'd wake up, trapped in his old life, with Jim and Sebastian still his enemies. 

The de-aging compound had skewed not only his sense of time, but his sense of reality. Or perhaps this was simply another part of his learned, every-present paranoia. It seemed too good to be true, and thus it had to be a lie.

"You already are." Seb leaned down to his ear, pressing a kiss against the lobe. Jim's fingers didn't stop their stroke on the other side of his head, catching and twisting the light curls in his hair until they released, only to do it all over again. 

"You'll see," Jim assured him.

It would take time. It was plain from Mycroft's features that he held reservations. His life had been so suddenly shaken up and changed that he no longer trusted the foundations, much less all the things he used to take for granted. He might have been an adult in mind now, but some insecurities had merely been buried rather than truly dealt with.

"Did you get what you wanted?" Mycroft asked. He turned his head and his gaze fell upon Alexei's body. "...we should take care of that."

Sebastian pulled himself up to a sitting position, lifting Mycroft along with him until the boy was in his lap. Seb wasn’t shy in front of Jim, and he had no reason to be. 

Jim nodded. "I think Seb got more than that, but yes. Time's up." He held his hand out to Mycroft and helped the boy to his feet while Sebastian scrounged for lost clothing. 

Mycroft gathered his own, wincing slightly as he redressed. Even though Seb had been careful, he was going to be sore for a while. "We have to get his head, first. Before we get rid of him," he stated as a matter-of-fact. Jim looked at him sharply and Mycroft turned his attention from his clothing to the man's stare. "...what? Is that going to be an issue?"

The criminal was staring at him like he'd grown another head. Even Seb paused to look. Jim furrowed his brows in disbelief. Mycroft had done the impossible; he'd taken Jim completely off guard. "You're not _still_ on about that, are you?" 

When Mycroft only looked back at him, Jim threw up his hands. 

" _Fine!_ Seb, be a dear and get that." Jim rolled his eyes. 

Sebastian looked from one to the other, and shrugged. He got up and went to find a saw. 

Mycroft went cold and continued dressing, stiffly. "Is there something particularly wrong about _that_?" he asked, voice deceptively mild. Jim hadn't laughed, but Mycroft still felt like he'd been ridiculed, if subtly. Jim had found his concern whimsical and endearing not too long ago. Perhaps he felt that illogical comfort rituals were undesirable.

Jim heard the bite in Mycroft's tone loud and clear and responded accordingly. His head rolled back to face the boy and his shoulders slumped in a beseeching posture. Jim sighed through his nose. He caught Mycroft's hand and drew the boy to him. There was the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You're very peculiar, did you know that?" 

"And here I thought you found peculiar to be attractive." Mycroft still wasn't quite certain whether Jim was still mocking him or not. "You yourself are not without quirks, and the same holds true for Sebastian. Do you find my traits so taxing? Or is it that they seem pointless?"

"I'd expected it was something you'd grown out of since childhood." Jim looked down at him, letting his smile show even though he didn't receive one in return. He pet Mycroft's hair fondly while the boy leveled cold eyes at him. "No need to worry over me, Mycroft." Jim's smile turned mischievous. "…not until October, that is." 

Mycroft's gaze sharpened. Jim knew him well enough by now to detect a flicker of fear, well-hidden under the boy's aloofness. His head tilted as he tried to determine if Jim's playful threat was serious. "...I'd be careful about that, if I were you. I don't respond very well to being frightened." The last thing Mycroft wanted was to accidentally hurt or kill either of the men in a prank gone too far.

Jim giggled and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's shoulders. "Oh, I imagine you and I could have a lot of fun with one another," he said while Sebastian passed them with a large saw. Although Jim could see the roiling worry under Mycroft's cool facade, he did not seem to be deterred. Jim was unpredictable, but the way he was stroking fingers down the back of Mycroft's neck subtly reassured him that Jim had no plans to do so soon.

Mycroft watched Seb get to work with the saw. Jim's touch gradually soothed him and unknotted the muscles in his neck and shoulders. "I enjoy a certain amount of fear and danger, but I've spent too many years looking for assassins in every corner. Having people disposed of before they could attempt the same with Sherlock and me. Even if I find a situation thrilling, instinct and habit take over if the threat starts to seem too real."

Jim bent and kissed his head, sighing and ruffling his hair. "Alright. I'll leave you alone." He bent a little lower, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's ear and whispered, "But Seb is fair game." 

Jim turned and rested his chin on the top of Mycroft's head, having to bend more than a bit to do so, but they watched Sebastian separate the last hunk of skin, parting the man's once-handsome head from his torso. The ex-colonel held it up by its hair and deposited it in a plastic bag laying to the side. The rest of the body leaked blood out onto the floor until he rolled it into its own bag. The men waiting outside would clean the rest. 

Mycroft was a bit irritated that Jim was treating him as if he was twelve again. He was more irritated in that the small touches and displays of affection were actually soothing. He decided not to deal with it, focusing on Sebastian instead as the man finished sealing up the bags. "Thank you, Sebastian," he offered when Seb shouldered his burden. 

The man gave him a wolfish grin. The way he brightened at the praise was instantaneous. Jim probably didn't dole it out very often. 

Jim only snorted. He made for the door, snapping his fingers at Seb. "Come. Let them clean up the rest. We have lots to do."

"Such as? I'd presume you're going to arrange for someone else to search the flat and fetch everything. That's not going to take much time or coordination. Or did you have something else lined up?" Mycroft asked, raising one delicate eyebrow. The primary motive for traveling to Russia in person had been to get out of Great Britain, after all, not because their presence was particularly required.

"Check up on your old friends in the British defense department, for example," Jim smiled and sighed, draping and arm around Mycroft's shoulders as they walked. Seb followed with their equipment bags. They'd left a horror room behind them, but one nod to the men standing watch outside the building and it would be clean within the hour. "And after we make sure they have enough shadows to chase, I want to make sure you're settled comfortably here."

That answered one question. Mycroft hadn't been certain whether they'd be constantly on the move or would bunker down in one location for a while. Russia made as good a sense as any place they could have gone. They wouldn't stick out too badly among the local populace, and law enforcement was loose enough to allow a thriving underground world of crime. "The program I've left them should start up in a couple of hours. There's a well-hidden backdoor into the system, so checking up on the status of the game board shouldn't be too taxing."

The boy's arm wound around Jim's waist, completing the picture. "I'll need a number of components to build a new custom computer, at minimum."

The smile on Jim's face grew. "That can certainly be arranged." He and Mycroft moved to the back of the car, climbing inside while they waited for Sebastian to speak with the cleanup crew. With the door shut behind them, Jim pulled Mycroft into his lap and sprawled out to relax against the leather seats. He kissed the boy's temple fondly. "You can have anything you like. Anything at all."

Mycroft stared at Jim for a long moment. It was apparent that he was trying to believe Jim's words, but not quite daring to. Not yet. Too many dashed hopes and dreams had turned him pessimistic and overly cautious. Time would be needed to erase his doubts. 

"Do I still get... to have you?" Mycroft's voice was too quiet. He was expecting Jim to refuse, now that he was no longer trapped in a warehouse with little choice in the matter.

Jim's dark eyes searched his curiously. A frown pulled at his lips before he pressed his forehead to Mycroft's temple. His arms tightened around the boy. "And why would you not?" Jim's warm breath tickled against his skin. The man was warm, and the enclosed space of the car gave them the illusion of security, of uninterrupted privacy. 

"You didn't like the idea before." Mycroft's eyes were cold as Jim looked into them, but not from anger or rejection. He pulled detachment around himself, into himself, like a shield. Mycroft had learned that if he allowed nothing to touch him, the inevitable wounds would hurt less, and so dissociation had become second nature. "I wasn't... certain you wouldn't demand that I'd have to catch you again."

Jim's gaze, by contrast, melted into Mycroft. There were times when, while Richard for example, he'd go incredibly soft until he allowed that edge of sharpness back into his features. It could be caught in a split second with a change in look, or a change in the light, but this time when his eyes lowered and studied the curve of Mycroft's mouth, it never came. Instead, a hint of a smile pulled at Jim's lips. "Mycroft. You already have me."

Mycroft's gaze dropped. The intensity had been uncomfortable to bear, particularly when he wasn't certain whether or not to believe what he'd seen. The boy's mouth twitched up in a smile that would have matched Jim's, had it not been so self-deprecating. "You say that. I still feel like you're going to disappear right beneath my fingertips, solid as you seem right now." As he spoke, Mycroft had to touch Jim, just to make sure. "You'll have to forgive me in that, when I'm offered anything I'd like, I start looking for strings and hooks."

"You'll come to believe me someday," Jim said quietly. He grew more sober. "And if not, I know I've still burrowed inside you too deep to let go. Whether you want to or not." He hadn't gone sharp, like he normally did, but Mycroft's coldness was reflected in Jim to a degree. 

Outside the car Seb came walking up, boots heavily announcing his presence on the asphalt until the driver's door clicked open. 

"I know." A flicker of fear passed through Mycroft at the admission. Things had progressed too far for him to ever go back to his old life, even if he'd wanted to. Perhaps that had been the case from the beginning, as soon as Jim had abducted him from the alley behind 221 Baker Street. Even his brief escape had only been postponing the inevitable.

But such deep ties ran both ways. "You can't escape either. It would destroy us." His fingers clenched around a handful of Jim's shirt. "I need you just as much as you need me, now."

Seb glanced back at them in the rearview mirror before he started the engine. 

Jim only smiled back at the boy, accepting the truth of his words like the greatest secret they had. He pulled Mycroft against him and sighed. In that moment, Jim Moriarty was happy. He gave Seb a crooked smile in the mirror. 

"Let's get out of here."

Mycroft curled around Jim and listened to the engine roar to life, taking them away to... somewhere. _Where_ didn't really matter anymore. Encircled in James Moriarty's arms, Mycroft actually felt safe for once. Happy. Emotions he couldn't remember feeling for years. _This_ was what mattered. Everything else seemed trivial in comparison.

They leaned back and watched the scenery fly by. The clouds dotted the sky high overhead and the tops of trees whizzed past. They would have rolled the windows down, just to feel the exhilaration of life outside reaching in to touch them, but the cocoon of the backseat they shared was too good to break. 

For once, Jim broke his mind from the road, from their plans, from the people Mycroft had left behind, and the places they were soon to go. Seb would get them there safely. For once, just once, the never ending, churning maelstrom inside his mind grew calm, and when he looked down at Mycroft, he knew the boy felt the same.

For once, wrapped in each other's arms, safe together and with the world ready and waiting before them, each knew peace.

* * *

Sherlock had been, if anything, even more unbearable after the incident that caused his brother to disappear for the second time. He and John had woken up in an empty office suite, bound and groggy from the sedatives but without any severe injuries. Without any other people, either. Whoever had coordinated the third assault wave hadn't been interested in them and had cast them aside.

When they'd finally gotten free and contacted the Met, it had been a slow process to search for the rest of their party. Everyone else who'd survived the gunfight turned up, one by one, similarly abandoned. Everyone except James Moriarty, the man's second-in-command, and Mycroft.

Sherlock, for once, didn't know what to make of the situation. It seemed unlikely that Moriarty would have his own men tranquilize he and his bodyguard unless there was some angle Sherlock couldn't see yet. That meant the most likely possibility was a third player: someone powerful who Moriarty had made into an enemy and who had seen Mycroft in his custody before.

What the detective left unspoken were his many doubts. He remembered all too well the haunted, frustrated cast to his brother's eyes in the time leading up to their attempt at entrapment. Mycroft was very good at making himself unreadable, but for the fact that Sherlock knew him too well for him to wall himself off completely. Suspicion ate at Sherlock and stole away his sleep.

John had done his best to console the detective. It was a lot of effort with not many results. The doctor simply couldn't do much. Nor could anyone else. 

There had been obvious questions - if a third party were involved, had Mycroft not known? And how could said party have known their location and interrupted them with such precise timing? The signs pointed to a scenario with too many loose ends, far too many. 

When Lestrade finally kicked him out of the Yard for dogging the DI and the other officers who'd been involved, Sherlock spent days pacing the flat, rushing out and back in again in a whirlwind that had taken him to one dead end after another. 

All the while John watched in despair. He was beyond consoling Sherlock. The detective simply refused to stop his work long enough to let anything sink in. John watched him work himself to exhaustion and the doctor wasn't far behind following, if only for his friend's sake and for Mycroft's. 

Sherlock was on edge enough that when his mobile finally rang, the device flew from his fingers in his rush to answer. Sherlock scrambled after it in uncharacteristic clumsiness before he snatched it up and brought it to his ear. "Yes, what have you got?"

The detective's features soured briefly with frustration before his spine stiffened. He rocked back on his heels, then shot back to his full height. "What? When? Yes, I'll be right there, _don't touch anything_!" Sherlock snapped the phone shut on the voice in mid-protestation. "John, get your coat. We have to go."

John's head snapped up. "What? What's happened?" He'd been lying on the couch, trying to shut the world out, but at the sudden change in pace he was roused instantly. He jumped to his feet and swayed before he caught his balance. One brief glance at Sherlock's mad scramble for his coat set John into motion after him, hurrying for his shoes and pulling on his jacket. 

"Mycroft's computer started back up, and it activated a new program. Something complicated, it spread through the entire Defense Network." Sherlock tugged his coat on and was already racing down the steps, confident that John would keep apace of him. "Nobody knows what it is, nobody's seen it before, and it's started doing things without anyone being at the controls." The question was, was it Mycroft, accessing the network remotely and trying to send for help? The party that had ostensibly kidnapped him? Or something else entirely?

John's eyes widened as they dashed out onto the street. He was about to make for a cab at the corner of the block but before they could take five steps a black Jaguar pulled up in front of them, idling in the middle of the street. John glanced to Sherlock, now distrustful of unmarked cars and faceless drivers, but when the detective gave a quick nod that was good enough for him. They both climbed in.

The driver wasted no time in hitting the petrol. Mycroft apparently wasn't the only government official to have the ability to tamper with street traffic - they made record time into the heart of London, arriving at the Old Admiralty building far quicker than any cab would have been able to deliver them. The car pulled into secured parking and let Sherlock and John out with an escort. Security was expecting them and waved them through to a nervous-looking pair. Sherlock and John both recognized the young woman who stood beside the older man in a crisp suit. Catherine Shelford, Mycroft's coworker and possible-friend.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," the official began and led them into the elevator. "You understand our concern, at this point. We need to know what we're dealing with and if we need to shut the entire network down. Right now this program seems to have access to everything, and none of us know what it is or where it came from."

"Sir." Ms. Shelford's hand tightened around her own wrist. "I've been telling you, I think it's from Mr. Holmes. From what I can tell, it's doing a lot of the same tasks he used to do. And it introduced itself as Archangel. Very politely. What black hat would break into our database and code an AI to politely compile information?"

Sherlock and John both eyed her with astonishment. That did, strangely, sound like Mycroft. Or a very well played ploy at mimicking Mycroft. With Jim Moriarty's whereabouts unknown, he could not be written off as a possible suspect either. 

The elevator took them several floors down into the bowels of the building and when the doors opened, the place hadn't lost its conventional tastes, but there was a definite sense of coldness in the air, set into the foundations just below the polished wood. 

"Can you…talk to it?" John asked obtusely. 

"Somewhat. Everyone went nuts when it started up and began accessing sensitive information on its own. We couldn't restrict its network access. Rick started swearing, and the program picked up the audio feed through his microphone and chided him on his language." She pointed out the windows open on the screens as they drew closer to Mycroft's workstation. Data was flicking by at an alarming rate, text and photos moving too fast for the human eye to properly process. "We've kept trying to talk to it since then. Smarter than any AI I've ever seen, but still limited."

Sherlock was already moving ahead, long legs skipping steps in his hurry to get down to the workstation.

Sherlock and John stared at the thing for a moment before the detective moved closer and John came up at his side. Much of what the screens showed look like a process meant for observation, something graphical for human eyes to watch and monitor. A smaller window in the corner of one screen showed that there was much more going on internally, logging events and operations in a steady stream. 

John tore his eyes from the screens and cast them on Sherlock, hoping he could explain it. 

Sherlock picked up a headset that had been abandoned on the workstation. He cleared his throat, feeling slightly foolish. "...hello?"

[Good afternoon. Might I ask your name?] The voice that came out of the computer's speakers lacked a human's natural inflection, but the timbre vaguely resembled the pleasant baritone of a man.

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm told you have identified yourself as Archangel. Is this correct?" Sherlock noted with some surprise as a new window popped open on top of the functions already running. A stylized, winged icon was centered in the middle of what appeared to be a dashboard menu.

[Detective, Brother. You are correct, Mr. Holmes.]

John's eyes darted around the room before sharing a look with Sherlock. He was feeling just as uncomfortable, half for Sherlock's sake, not knowing how to address a computer. Ms. Shelford stood behind them with her hands clasped respectfully, and John wondered whether they'd gotten anything out of the system or not…and whether Sherlock would have any more luck than they did. He took a short breath before he repeated, "Brother?"

[Correct. Sherlock Holmes is the Brother of my creator.] Sherlock sat down at the terminal while the voice continued in its flat, soothing near-monotone. [I have been tasked with watching and protecting in my creator's absense.]

"Cor. You're getting a lot more out of this thing than we have," Catherine muttered, walking up to join both of them. "Why didn't you say as much?"

[Apologies, Ms. Shelford. You requested knowledge of what tasks I was occupied with, and I complied with a complete list. You did not inquire about my greater objective.]

"Welcome to the Enterprise," John muttered. He ran a hand over his brow in a poor attempt to ease the tension behind his eyes. Watching Ms. Shelford was like watching a teacher's favorite student not get called on in class and fearing she'd fallen out of favor. He could only imagine the frustrations her coworkers were having with complications like this. But if Archangel was operating on behalf of Mycroft, it possibly had more information on him than they did. "Archangel, do you know where Mycroft, your creator, is? Is he the one who turned you on?" 

[Unidentified speaker. No, sir. I was set to self-activate after 168 hours had passed without Mr. Holmes entering an override code. According to the log Mr. Holmes left, my purpose is to assist in fulfilling some of his functions in the event that he is not available. Until such time as the necessary data is available within our security network, I am unable to calculate possible locations for Mr. Holmes.]

"Wait. Ms. Shelford, did anything else turn up at the same time as this? Have you seen this log that it mentioned?"

"No, I haven't." she admitted. "We hadn't even been able to determine what it was doing until just recently. But, now that you seem to have gotten its attention, we just might be able to." She nodded and straightened from where she had perched over Sherlock's shoulder, watching the screens for any change that never came. "Archangel, can you show us the log Mr. Holmes left?"

[Certainly, Ms. Shelford.] The menu screen flickered and enlarged itself on one of the monitors, going black before Mycroft's boyish features appeared. From the dark circles under his eyes and the distraught edges to his face, as well as what little could be seen behind him, it appeared that this video was taken from Mycroft's panic room shortly before they had left to confront Moriarty.

"If you're seeing this video, something unexpected has come to pass and I am no longer available to fulfill my duties at this time. What you're currently interacting with is a program I've been building for years and only recently finalized. Archangel is an AI that has been designed to learn as it interacts. It can handle a few critical languages at present for quick translations, encryption and decryption functions, and will automatically scan data in the network to search for possible connections, then compile reports on issues that may need attention. You can also request for it to compile data within the parameters of your choice."

Mycroft paused for a moment. "It isn't perfect, and it isn't really a replacement, but it was the best stopgap I could come up with. My hope is that, if for some reason I fail to ever return, that you will learn to utilize this last tool and make do without me. Archangel is also equipped with the ability to teach personnel how to use some of the programs I used on a regular basis. Use it wisely." Another pause, and then the screen went black again.

Ms. Shelford's hand went to her mouth and her eyes grew pained, but those were the only signs that she had lost any of her composure. None of them had been expecting that. To see Mycroft again, to hear his voice, even as the child they had only recently been growing accustomed to, was wrenching. 

Ms. Shelford let out a small breath of air. "I know about many, if not most of, the projects Mr. Holmes was working on," she said to Sherlock. "I might not be able to pick up on the intricacies of all of them - his work is far more overreaching than mine - but he'd allowed me to see enough that with a little help I should be able to see if this program is managing them accurately."

"...yes. Yes, that would be wise." Sherlock cleared his throat in an attempt to bring his thoughts and emotions back into alignment. Not only hadn't he been prepared to see a recording of his brother, he hadn't been prepared for what had been spoken in between the lines: Mycroft had had doubts about how the confrontation was going to go. Doubts that he hadn't addressed with Sherlock, including the possibility that he might not return. Sherlock wasn't certain whether this meant it was more or less likely that he'd been killed.

"Since I have only had a short exposure to the system, I'd prefer to have you run the tests."

Ms. Shelford nodded enthusiastically, trying to compensate for her own riled emotions. "Yes, of course. You're welcome to stay if you'd like, but I will, of course, call you in again if we discover anything else your brother has left…left behind." 

The weight of what they'd just been told was only beginning to sink in when the door opened and a stocky, balding man obviously not with the tech department interrupted them. "Ms. Shelford, I hate to interrupt, but I'm gonna need you to determine whether 2 million pounds we lost track of in Moscow was hacked or simply decrypted. We got a positive ID on the body, but it still doesn't look like it was the mob that got to him. Or got away with the currency," He sighed in exasperation. 

"Ah yes, I'll be there in ten. Thank you Mr. Hardwick," she said, instantly amenable, a trait reminiscent of Mycroft himself, before she turned to Sherlock and John to make her apologies. "Looks like that might have to wait a few minutes. We've lost track of quite a lot of money in Russia recently. We'd been hoping to track it down eventually with no such luck and no explanation why."

"I have worked on international cases before," Sherlock pointed out. "Seems rather unusual for a digital robbery to involve a corpse, particularly if the mob isn't involved." The detective didn't particularly care about what the British government had been doing with the money in question. He'd caught scent of a puzzle that might hold his interest, and he never turned interesting puzzles down. Particularly when they might serve as a distraction from grief.

"He's Mr. Holmes' brother, and an independent - consulting? - detective," Ms. Shelford was quick to explain when Mr. Hardwick narrowed his eyes curiously at Sherlock. "The funny thing is," she went on for Sherlock's benefit, "that we _thought_ the mob was involved. And they were, until we found the dead body and the money missing." 

"He's very good at what he does, if you wouldn't mind another pair of eyes," John jumped in. 

Mr. Hardwick sighed. He'd seen Sherlock around when Mycroft had gone missing the first time. "Well, if you've got clearance to be in here, I don't see why not. Come on."

They followed Mr. Hardwick up the stairway and down the hall, into one of the many secure conference rooms they'd passed before. Sherlock was full of questions as soon as the door closed behind them. "Tell me as much as you can, from the beginning. Whose body have you found, and how was he involved? What was the purpose of the money, and the connection to the mafia? When did you lose contact?"

"We lost contact with the embezzler, a man named Alexei Rhyzkov, a few days ago. He never spoke with us until he was ready to leave everything behind. We've got a couple informants in the mob who say Rhyzkov was in their possession for no less than 24 hours before he was moved. Higher ups moved him, but somehow they lost track of him. His body was found two days ago, abandoned just outside Moscow. The flash drive with the funds he'd embezzled was found sitting in his home on the kitchen table, erased. _Somebody_ got to him after the mob, and walked off with quite a lot of money." Mr. Hardwick pulled out a tablet and gestured to a large overhead monitor. Photos of Rhyzkov's apartment as well as the scene where they'd found the body - a shallow grave alongside one of the major highways into the city.

Sherlock inclined his head ever so slightly. "Did you exhume the corpse? Markings or left evidence may tell us something. The principle of exchange is very basic, but it still holds true in most cases, even when the perpetrator is very careful." His eyes darted over the photographs of Rhyzkov's flat. Nothing stood out to him as particularly unusual - it was a classic break-in. "I'm assuming you swept the flat for evidence and confiscated the flash drive? Have you examined it to see if the erase was completely clean?"

"Flat was completely clean, as we believe the drive to be, which we only found last night. Doesn't look hopeful, but Ms. Shelford is going to have to look into it. Coming up on the body now…." He flicked through more photos, skimming along to what Sherlock really wanted to see. 

The corpse had been wrapped in two bags and as soon as the photographs showed them opened, it was clear why. Besides being severely tortured, Rhyzkov had been decapitated.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he viewed the post-mortem images. Something about the wounds struck him as eerily familiar, and it took him a moment to realize precisely why. The body had signs of having undergone extreme stress for a duration of time, more than would have been feasible for the wounds that had killed him. The stab wounds had been what proved fatal, the final puncture above the heart slightly jagged around the edges from emotion, perhaps anger. The decapitation had occurred some time after death.

It reminded Sherlock a bit of some of the animals he'd found in his youth - tortured, killed quickly, and decapitated. A particular quirk when one had an irrational fear and fascination with the undead. Or perhaps, in this case, the concept of the dead returning to take revenge on their killers.

John glanced at Sherlock when he'd gone quiet, unaccustomed to silence from the man. Even Mr. Hardwick and Ms. Shelford waited, sensing a pause in the detective. It was readable from John's expression that he couldn't tell whether Sherlock had noticed something or whether he were simply gathering and compiling all the details in his mind. The detective didn't move a muscle. 

"What do you know of Rhyzkov's history? Any enemies aside from the mafia? This isn't brutal enough for a mafia killing." It was brutal, but there wasn't enough total body trauma for it to be consistent with the way the mafia normally tried to interrogate prisoners. So too, the timing was oddly coincidental with the disappearance of the one person Sherlock knew had killed like this before, if with nonhuman victims. A theory began to coalesce in the back of his mind. "The killer would have had to have a good knowledge of basic human anatomy. The victim was scared into giving up the information that led to the money, then quickly killed afterwards. The lack of blunt trauma injuries and extraneous cuts is inconsistent with the mafia's usual methods."

"Scared into it?" asked Hardwick. With the right provocation, a man could be scared into almost anything, but even he could see that apart from the quick, killing blows the body hadn't been tortured to the extreme. "Yes that's definitely not a usual tactic for the mob, not when they've got a guy tied up and want their money. We know he's got a family, but as far as we've heard they haven't been contacted. This guy made a few enemies in the business, but none who knew he was embezzling until the very end. So, not likely suspects." 

"At this point, the money would be impossible to trace," Ms. Shelford added. She was flicking through the files on her own tablet. "We'll be looking for large sums going through exchange, but with cyber currency there's no way to track any of it directly. They wouldn't even have to transfer it all at once." She didn't look hopeful. 

That method of killing, torture without leaving many marks behind, verbal intimidation tactics, and a technological aspect to the crime. Sherlock didn't know whether to feel relieved or more pained. Mycroft was alive. Given how he'd disappeared and the crime Sherlock suspected he was involved in, the most likely scenario was that he was out there with Moriarty.

He'd chosen to go back.

Both men were clever, enough so that they wouldn't be caught unless he assisted in their capture. Sherlock wasn't willing to do that. "If you give me whatever information you can, I will do what I can to be of assistance."

"Alright," Mr. Hardwick nodded to Ms. Shelford. "Take care of them and let me know if you find anything on how that drive was erased. And figure out that _damned_ computer program, ok?"

"Right away," she gave him a tight smile as he headed out the door. "I'm going to send you a copy of our files on this case. Make sure they don't leave your possession," she said to Sherlock, "I'm afraid I won't have time to go over Archangel with you after all. But I promise I will call you if I come across anything more from Mr. Holmes." 

"Good." That would have to do. Sherlock doubted Ms. Shelford was going to find anything more from Mycroft. If he'd known there was a chance he'd abandon them and use the raid as a cover, he would have been meticulous. "I'll be in touch regarding the case."

Sherlock was putting forth an effort to appear engaged, but he was no longer interested in the crime as anything other than a possible tool to find a way to contact his brother.

As he stood with John, Ms. Shelford stepped forward to shake their hands. She seemed sincere about it, too, more so than would have been common for her peers. "I want to thank you, Sherlock Holmes, for helping us these past weeks. I know it may not mean much to you, but I do hope your brother comes back to us." 

John gave her a small smile, seeing that Sherlock was not going to handle this well. "I'm sure Mycroft would appreciate what you're doing here." 

She returned it with a sad smile of her own. "Thank you, Doctor Watson." 

She led them back to the elevator, passing people who the elder Holmes might have worked with on a daily basis. They would never know what became of their boss, never know what Mycroft had sacrificed to attain this job and live the life he’d had, never know that he had ever wished for anything more - even Ms. Shelford who had looked up to him so fondly.

Sherlock was unusually silent and detached as they made their way back to the entrance, lost in thought. Planning. If what he suspected was true, Mycroft would never surface again to resume his old life. It was unlikely that any of these people would ever see him again. Hope lay in confirming that his brother was alive and constructing some way for them to communicate. No matter what path Mycroft had chosen, Sherlock was not going to reject him for it.

How ironic, that after so many years of avoiding his brother's presence and resenting his meddling, all Sherlock wanted was to get Mycroft back again. In whatever limited capacity that might be. Encrypted phone calls for the rest of his life was better than some of the alternatives.

John waited till they were back on the street to say anything. Apparently the government considered loaning them a car to leave was less important than loaning them a car to arrive. When they were half a block away searching out a cab in the light drizzle, John glanced over at Sherlock. "Well, that was kind of a bust, wasn't it?"

"Somewhat. We still don't know for certain whether Mycroft is alive or not, but his coworkers will be in better shape with the tool he's left them than they were the first time around." Sherlock's hands were shoved firmly into his pockets. John... would not understand. Sherlock had trouble understanding John's reactions sometimes, but he was certain that his companion would be horrified if he related his theory to the good doctor. John's empathy, his firm moral system, would take hold. He would be horrified, rather than sharing Sherlock's hope.

The doctor's soft eyes glanced at him once before John raised his hand for a cab heading their way. "I'm still here if you ever want to talk about it, you know. Whatever happens." Even if that wasn't Sherlock's usual style, John would offer. The detective did seem somewhat calmer after having encountered Archangel. John wasn't sure what Sherlock had seen when he looked at it, but the man who had exited the steps of the Old Admiralty building seemed far less haunted than the one who had entered. 

Sherlock's gaze shifted to the shorter man. After a few moments of unusually intense contemplation, he gave a shallow nod. "Perhaps." John needn't hear everything, after all. Sherlock had never really confided in another person before John, aside from the inevitable way that he and Mycroft had always had of getting in each other's heads. Sherlock wasn't certain he could open up in the way John wished he would. John was expecting catharsis and healing. As trusted as the man was, there were some things he was better off not knowing.

They climbed in the cab, headed back to 221B Baker St., and left the expanse of the Old Admiralty Building behind to loom in the mirror along with the drizzle.

_Fin._


End file.
